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POETICAL WORKS 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



POETICAL WORKS 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



A MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE. 



FOURTH EDITION, GKEATLV ENLARGED. 



BOSTON: 
TTCKNOR AND FIELDS 



M DCCC LIX. 






RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
ITEREOTTPED AND PRINTED 
H. 0. HOOGHTON AND COMPANT. 



>^A.; 






LINES 

WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF MY FRIEND, 

' WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 

November, 1847. 

Place we a stone at his head and his feet ; 
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet ; 
Piously hallow the Poet's retreat ! 

Ever approvingly, 

Ever most lovingly, 
Turned he to Nature, a worshipper meet. 

Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ; 
Odorous honors its blossoms will shed. 
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped 

Hence, not unwillingly — 

For he felt thrillingly — 
To rest his poor heart 'mong the low-lying dead. 

Dearer to him than the deep Minster bell, 
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell. 
Vocal with soitows he knoweth too well. 

Who, for the early day, 

Plaining this roundelay. 
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. 

Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves, 
Grudge not the minstrel the httle he craves, 
When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves- 
Tears — which devotedly, 
Though all unnotedly, 
Flow from their spring, in the soul's silent caves. 



Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine, 
Graced with the beauty which lives in his line ; 
Strew with pale flow'rets, when pensive moons shine, 

His grassy covering, 

Where spirits hovering, 
Chant, for his requiem, music divine. 

Not as a record he lacketh a stone ! 

Pay a light debt to the singer we've known — 

Proof that our love for his name hath not flown 

With the frame perishing — 

That we are cherishing 
Feelings akin to the lost Poet's own. 

William Kennedy. 



TO 

LADY CAMPBELL, 

THIS NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION 

OF THE POEMS OF HER KINSMAN, 

WILLIAM ^1 O T H E R W E L L 

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir 15 

POEMS. 

The Battle-flag of Sigiird 61 

The Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim 67 

The Sword Chant of Thorstein Eaiidi 72 

Jeanie Morrison 75 

My Heid is like to rend, Willie 78 

Tfie Madman's Love 80 

Halbert the Grim 91 

True Love's Dirge 94 

The Demon Lady 97 

Zara 99 

Ougloii's Onslaught 101 

Elfinland Wud 104 

Midnight and Moonshine 108 

The Water! the Water! 112 

Three Fanciful Si;pposes 114 

A Caveat to the Wind 115 

What is Glory? What is Fame ? 117 

The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte 118 

Melancholye 121 

I am not sad 123 

The Joys of the Wilderness 125 

A Solemn Conceit 126 

The Expatriated 128 

Facts from Fairy-Land 129 

Certain Pleasant Verses to the Lady of my Heart . . . 131 

Beneath a Placid Brow 132 

The Covenanters' Battle-Chant 134 



X CONTENTS. 

PAOE 

Tim the Tacket 135 

The Witches' Joys 138 

A Sabbatli Summer Noon 141 

A Monody. : 145 

They come! the Merry Summer Months ■. 148 

Change sweepetli over" all 150 

O, Wke be to the Orders 151 

Wearie's Well 153 

Song of the Danish Sea-king 154 

The Cavalier's Song 156 

The Merry Gallant 156 

The Knight's Song 157 

The Trooper's Ditty 159 

He is gone ! He is gone ! 160 

The Forester's Carol 161 

May Morn Song 162 

The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, Mary 163- 

In the Quiet and Solemn Night 165 

The Voice of Love ^ 166 

Away ! Away ! 0, do not say 167 

Agony ! keen Agonv , 168 

The Serenade / 168 

Could Love impart 170 

The Parting 172 

Love's Diet 173 

The Midnight Wind 173 

The Waithman's Wail 174 

The Troubadour's Lament 177 

When I beneath the cold, red Earth am sleeping 179 

Spirits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 180 

The Crusader's Farewell 185 

The Midnight Lamp 185 

Come down, ye Spirits ! 186 

Ding dong! 187 

Clerke Richard and Maid Margaret 189 

Lord Archibald: a Ballad 191 

And have I gazed ? 196 

She is not dead 197 

Sweet Earlsburn, blithe Earlsburn 199 

Begone, begone, thou truant Tear. 200 

0, babble not to me, gray Eild 201 

Sonnet : the Patriot's Death 201 

Sonnet: pale Daughter of the Night 202 

Sonnet: the Hand's wild Grasp. .' 203 

Sonnet : silvery Hairs 203 

Lady Margaret: a Ballad 204 



CONTENTS. XI 

POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

PAGE 

that this weary War of Life ! 211 

Choice of Death 212 

Like Mist on a ^louiitain-Top, brol<ea and erray 213 

Song 214 

True Woman 215 

Friendship and Love 216 

And hae ve seen my ain true Luve ? 217 

The spell-bound Knight 218 

Cruxtoun Castle 219 

Roland and Rosabelle 224 

Song 226 

For blither Fields and braver Bowers 22t 

Hope and Love 228 

Songe of the Schippe ,. . 229 

He stood alone '. . 230 

Cupid's Banishmente 231 

The Ship of the Desert 232 

The Poet's Wish 233 

Isabelle • 234 

What is this World to Me V 235 

To a Lady's Bonnet 236 

The Wanderer 236 

Song 238 

The Hunter's Well 239 

It deeply wounds the trusting Heart 240 

The Ettin O'Sillarwood 24-1 

Like a worn gray-haired Mariner 247 

The Lav of Geoflfroi Rudel 248 

Envie .". 248 

Love's Tokens 249 

say not pure Affections change ! 250 

The Rose and the fair Lilye 251 

Young Love '. 252 

To the Tempest 253 

Goe deed wi' Smylis the Cheek ! 254 

The Poet's Destiny 256 

1 met wi' her I luved Yestreen 256 

To the Lady of my Heart 257 

The fause Ladye 258 

My ain Countrie 259 

To a Friend at parting 260 

I plucked the Berry. 262 

Song 262 

To * * * * 263 

The Knight's Requiem 264 



Xll CONTPJNTS. 



PAGE 

The Rocky Islet 266 

The Past and the Future 266 

0, turn from me those radiant Eyes ! 267 

Oh thuik na'e mair o' me, sweet May 268 

The love-lorn Knight and the Damsel pitiless 269 

Love in Worldly nesse 270 

A Night Vision 272 

This is no Solitude 277 

The lone Thorn 277 

The slayne Menstrel ; 278 

The Mermaiden 280 

Song 281 

The lean Lover 283 

Aftectest thou the Pleasures of the Shade? 284 

Music 284 

The shipwrecked Lover 285 

Hollo, my Fancy ! 287 

Love's Potencie 295 

Life 296 

Superstition 296 

Ye vernal Hours ! 299 

Come, thou bright Spirit ! 299 

Lays of the lang bein Ritters 801 

"The Ritters ride forth 301 

Lay of the broken-hearted and hope-bereaved Men 302 

Dream of Life's eaiiy Day, farewell forever 304 

The Ritters ride Home 306 



MEMOIR 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



MEMOIR. 



William Motherwell was born at Glasgow, 
on the 13th day of October, 1797.* He was the 
tliird son of WiUiam Motherwell, a native of Stir- 
lingsliire, who settled in that city about the year 
1792, where he followed the business of an iron- 
nionger.f His mother's name was Elizabeth Bar- 
net, the daughter of William Barnet, a respectable 
farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, in Perth- 
shire, who, at her father's death, inherited a little 
fortune of two thousand pounds. Early in the 
present century, his father removed with his family 
to Edinburgh, where his son was placed under the 
charge of Mr. William Lennie, an eminent teacher 
of English in that city, and the author of several 
useful and popular school-books ; and it was while 
attending this school that the boy met " Jeanie 
Morrison," a mild and bashful girl, whose name he 
afterwards immortahzed, and of whose gentle na- 
ture he retained through life the most pleasing- 
recollections. The first draught of his poem is 
said to have been made at fourteen years of age, 
and, as he has himself recorded, they never met 

* The house in which this event took place was situated at the 
south corner of College Street, fronting High Street. 

t Mr. Motherwell's family consisted of three sons, — David, John 
and WiUiam, — and three daughters, — Mai-garet, Amelia, and Eliz- 
abeth, — of whom his eldest daughter, Margaret, alone survives. 



16 MEMOIR. 

after leaving school.* As the reader cannot fail 
to be gratified by an account of the poet's juvenile 
history, I transcribe J;he following details, which 
have been obligingly communicated to the pub- 
lisher by Mr. Lennie himself: — 

" William Motherwell entered -my school, then 
kept at No. 8 Ciichton Street, in the neighborhood 
of George Square on the 24th of April, 1805, and 
left it for the High School here on the 1st day of 
October, 1808. He was between seven and eight 
years old when he joined, an open-faced, firm, and 
cheerful-looking boy. He began at the alphabet, 
and though he did not at first display any uncom- ' 
mon ability, his mind soon opened up, and as he 
advanced in his education he speedily manifested a 
superior capacity, and ultimately became the best 
scholar in the school ; yet he never showed any of 
that petulant or supercilious bearing which some 
children discover who see themselves taken notice 
of for the quickness of their parts ; he was, on the 
contrary, kind and accommodating, always ready 
to help those who applied to him for assistance, 
and a first-rate hand at carrying on sport during 
the hours of recreation. Besides acquiring a fair 
knowledge of geography, which was taught in the 
higher classes, and becoming well acquainted with 
the principles of English grammar, he, during the 
last twelve or eighteen months of his attendance 
at my school, devoted two separate hours daily to 
arithmetic and writing, in the latter of which es- 
pecially he excelled. In the course of a single 
year, he wrote an excellent small, distinct hand ; 
so good, indeed, was it, that few are able to do any 
thing like it, even after several years' practice. He 
also filled up skeleton maps so neatly, that at first 

* dear, dear Jeanie Morrisou, 
Since we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 
The music o' your tongue. 



MEMOIR. 1 7 

sight they might have been mistaken for copper- 
plate engravings. During the last year he was 
with me, ' Wilson's Sentimental Scenes ' were in- 
troduced into the upper classes. The reading of 
these sketches delighted huu exceedingly ; and he 
entered so completely into the spirit of the pieces, 
that he made the characters his own, and appeared 
to be a Roscius in miniature, a thing I have never 
found a boy to do but himself 

" Jane (Jeanie) Morrison was the daughter of 
one of the most respectable brewers and corn- 
factors then in Alloa. She came to Edinburgh to 
finish her education, and was in my school with 
William Motherwell during the last year of his 
course. She was about the same age with himself, 
a pretty girl, and of good capacity. Her hair was 
of a lightish brown, approaching to fair ; her eyes 
were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression ; 
her temper was mild, and her manners unassum- 
ing. Her dress was also neat and tidy. In winter, 
she wore a pale-blue pelisse, then the fashionable 
color, and a light-colored beaver with a feather. 
She made a great impression on young Mother- 
well, and that it was permanent his beautiful ballad 
shows. At the end of the season she returned to 
her parents at Alloa, with whom she resided till 
the time of her marriage. She is now a widow, 
with a family of three children, all of whom are 
grown up, and, I believe, doing well." * 

It would appear from this, that Motherwell was 
entered in the High School of Edinburgh as early 



* I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with this lady in 
after life, as Mrs. Murdoch. Her husband was a respectable mer- 
chant in this city, and died about the year 1828. She was, when 
I knew her, a very elegant woman in her personal appearance, 
and seemed to have preserved those gentle and agreeable man- 
ners for which she had been distinguished in girlhood ; but it 
is proper to remark, that she was whoUy unconscious of the 
ardent interest which she had excited in the mind of her boyish 
admirer. 

2 



18 MEMOIR. 

as the year 1808 ; but his attendance at that ex- 
cellent institution could not have exceeded a few 
months, as I find that he was placed early in 1809 
at the Grammar School of Paisley, then superin- 
tended by the late Mr. John Peddie. His father 
had not prospered in Edinburgh, and, in conse- 
quence of the embarrassed state of his affairs, his 
son WiUiam was consigned to the care of his brother, 
Mr. John Motherwell, a respectable iron-founder in 
Paisley. The curriculum at the Paisley Grammar 
School extended over five years, and if William 
Motherwell completed it, he must have enjoyed 
the full measure of elementary classical instruction, 
including, in the fifth year, the rudiments of Greek, 
which it was then customary to give to boys in 
Scotland. One of his surviving school compan- 
ions * informs me that, in conjunction with the late 
Mr. William Bain, advocate, and a Mr. Lymburn, 
also deceased, he was a dax boy, and there seems 
to be no reason to doubt, that he exhibited the 
same quickness of apprehension and readiness of 
parts in the Paisley Academy which he had dis- 
played in other schools ; but as his tastes were 
never scholastic, and as his knowledge of the dead 
tongues was always limited, the presumption is, 
that he followed the prominent bias of his mind, 
and devoted to works of imagination the hours 
that should have been given to school exercises. 
I am fortified in this belief by the recollections of 
Mr. Crawford, who says, " What Motherwell was 
most remarkable for, was his gift of spinning long 
yarns about castles, and robbers, and strange, out- 
of-the-way adventures, with which, while Mr. Ped- 
die imagined he was assisting his class-fellows with 
their lessons, he would entertain them for hours, 
day after day, like some of the famous story-tellers 
in the Arabian Nights ; and these stories were re- 

*Mr. John Crawford, wi'iter in Paisley. 



MEMOIR. 19 

tailed at second-hand, by his class-fellows, to those 
who had not the privilege of hearing them from 
the author hhnself " 

In the year 1811, his mother died at Edinburgh, 
and after that melancholy event, his father, accom- 
panied by his daughter, Amelia, retired to the vil- 
lage of Kilsyth, in Stirlingshire, where he dwelt till 
his death, which occurred in February, 1827. 

The history of his ancestors possesses considera- 
ble interest. In a letter with which I have been 
favored by my venerable and accomplished friend, . 
Mr. Sheriff* Campbell, of Paisley, they are thus 
spoken of: — 

" Of his family I had occasion to learn some- 
thing, in the course of a judicial inquiry concern- 
ing the succession of David Motherwell, his uncle, 
upwards of thirty years ago. That David Mother- 
well died possessed of a small estate on the banks 
of the Carron, in the Barony of Dundaff", in Stir- 
lingshire, which, according to what I found to be the 
tradition of the neighborhood, supported, to a cer- 
tain extent, by the title-deeds of the property, which 
I saw, had been in the possession of thirteen gene- 
rations of the same family, all bearing the same 
name of David, with the surname variously spelled ; 
being at one time Moderville, at another Moderell, 
and latterly Motherwell. His uncle, Alexander, 
set aside David's deed of settlement, and sold the 
property to. his younger brother John, an extensive 
iron-monger in Paisley, who left it to trustees for 
behoof of his daughter." 

The estate here spoken of was called Muirmill, 
and the name at once indicates the calling of the 
proprietors. They were the hereditary millers of 
Dundaff", and are so designated in a confirmatory 
charter granted in favor of the then possessor by 
James Graham, the celebrated Marquis of Mon- 
trose, in 1642, as will be seen by the following 
short extract from that document. It is to be 



20 MEMOIK. 

observed, that this extract has reference to " an 
instrument of seisin," dated 29th June, 1629, in fa- 
vor of " David Moderell, in Spittal,* and Isabella 
Small, his wife, proceeding on a charter granted 
by James, Earl of Montrose, Lord Graham and 
Mugdock, of the lands of all and whole, that pen- 
dicle of land called Spittal," &c. The deed of 
1642, then, confirms the previous grant of 1629 to 

" WilHam Modrell, miller, at Dundaff", callit the 
Muir Mill, ,| his spouse, and David Modrell, 

their son, on the other part, (of date at Drum- 
phad, 25th April, 1629 years,) whereby, with con- 
sent aforesaid, set in feu farm to the said William 
Modrell, and his spouse above named, and the 
langest liver of them twa, in life-rent ; and to Da- 
vid Modrell, their son, all and haill, the said mill, 
mill lands, and multures, &c., and pasturage for 
eight ky, all lying within the barony of Dundaff, 
and shire of Stirling."^ 

Upon what conditions the lands in question were 
held before the year 1629, my ignorance of feudal 
law disables me from saying ; but it is plain, both 
from the tradition mentioned by Mr. Campbell, 
and the charters at present in my possession, that 
this family of Motherwells had been settled in that 
locality, and probably on this very spot, for at least 
four hundred years, — the land and the occupation 
descending in regular succession from father to son. 
The name itself is obviously a local surname ; but 
it belongs to the county of Lanark, in the middle 
ward of which, and in the parish of Dalziel, there 
is a considerable village called Motherwell. The 



* An abbreviation of Hospital, and a common designation of 
small farms in certain parts of Scotland. Lands so called had 
formed portions of the extensive possessions of the military order 
of Knights Hospitallers. 

t Blank in the original. 

1 1 am indebted for the ti-anscription of this passage to my 
friend Dr. John Smith, the well-known Secretary to the Maitland 
Club. 



MEMOIR. 21 

statistical accounts speak of a well or spring as still 
existing there, from which the inhabitants are sup- 
plied with water, and which, in the olden time, was 
called the " Well of our Ladye." It was probably 
believed to possess medicinal virtues, and was, 
therefore, placed under the immediate protection 
of the " Virgin Mother," — whence the name Moth- 
erwell.* Its antiquity as a surname must be con- 
siderable, since it appears in the Ragman Rolls f 
for 1296, and also in the index to a cartulary of 
the Monastery of Paisley, in 1490 ; and, from what 
has been already stated, it will be seen that that 
branch of the race from which the poet sprang 
had been planted in Stirlingshire as far back as 
the beginning of the fifteenth century. The name, 
however, is an uncoumion one.J 

* Few towns, where there has been an ecclesiastical establish- 
ment, such as Glasgow, for instance, want a Lady Well. 

t The title given to the list of names of those who swore fealty 
to Edward I., which has now something of the character and in- 
terest of a " Domesday Book." 

t In illustration of the history of the poet's family, it may be 
mentioned, that there is extant a deed of " assignation and dis- 
position," by his grandfather, David Motherwell, wherein he 
bequeathes to each of his " youiiger sons " (the number is not 
mentioned) £100 sterling ; and to each of his daughters, Elizabeth, 
Janet, and Amelia, 1,000 merks Scots, or about £55 sterling. 
Janet married . . Henry Bannerman. 

Elizabeth " . . David Whyte. 

Amelia " . . John Barnet. 

The latter was probably the poet's uncle. The descendants of 
Janet are now eminent merchants in Manchester, and the hne of 
Motherwell is represented by the poefs nephew, the son of his 
elder brother David, Mr. Charles McArthur Motherwell, who is a 
purser's clerk in the navy. The name of William Motherwell's 
grandmother was Amelia Monteath, the daughter of an old and 
respectable family settled at Dunblane in Stirlingshire. A sister 
of his mother's married a Mr. Ogilvie, who left a son. Major Ogil- 
vie. now resident in Edinburgh. 

John de Moderwell, chaplain, appears, in a deed of 1460. as one 
of the Procurators of Henry of Livingston, Knight, Commander 
of the Temple of St. John ; which Sir Henry was son of William, 
Lord of Kilsyth, and Preceptor of Torphichen. He died in 1463. 
Edward, his elder brother, was the direct ancestor of the Yi.scount 
Kilsyth, who was attainted in 1715. There is no evidence of any 
iilatiouship between this ancient priest and the poefs family ; 



22 MEMOIR. 

It having been resolved, I know not wlij', to 
devote this wayward and dreamy boy to the legal 
profession, he was placed, at the age of fifteen, in 
the office of the SherifF-Clerk of Paisley, where he 
remained for many years ; but, as may be readily 
conceived, the duties of such a situation were but 
little congenial to his tastes. Notwithstanding his 
dislike to the duties of a writer's clerk, he contrived 
to turn his new position so far to account by be- 
stowing great pains on the deciphering of ancient 
legal documents ; an art in which he latterly ex- 
celled. I am indebted to Mr. SheriiF Campbell 
for the following interesting particulars concerning 
Motherwell at this time : — 

" When I first knew William Motherwell, he was 
a very little boy in the Sheriif-Clerk's office here. 
I had observed his talent for sketching figures of 
men, in armor and otherwise, and, amongst the 
rest, one of myself, upon a blotter, which I had 
occasion to use* when sitting in the Sheriff-Court. 
I gave him a few ancient documents to copy for 
me, and, in place of an ordinary traiiscript, I re- 
ceived from him, with surprise and satisfaction, a 
facsimile so perfect, that, except for the color and 
texture of th*e paper, it would have been diffi- 
cult to distinguish it from the original manuscript. 
Finding him a smart and intelligent boy, I asked 
him to give me a statement, in writing, of certain 
occurrences to which he had been a witness, at a 
period when the peace of the district was threaten- 
ed. This account was not confined to facts, but was 

but his connection with Kilsyth, where a branch of the Mother- 
wells has been planted for many centuries, might justify the sus- 
picion, that he was of the same lineage. This mention of him in 
so old a document is satisfactory evidence of the antiquity of the 
surname, whatever opinion we may form as to his probable aflftnity 
to the ancestors of the subject of this memoir. 

For these details I am indebted chiefly to the diligence and 
antiquarian skill of my late amiable and lamented friend, Mr. 
Philip Ramsay, of Edinburgh, S. S. C, who had collected some 
materials for a life of William Motherwell. 



MEMOIR. 23 

interspersed with observations and reflections of his 
own, of a nature so unexpected and so curious, 
that I wished to preserve it ; but I am sorry that, 
in a search made for it some years ago, I was una- 
ble to find it. The notions of the boy were then 
what would now be called extremely liberal. In 
process of time, however, his views changed, and I 
used to joke him upon the ground that his conver- 
sion had been beaten into him by a party of lads 
(radicals), with whom he happened to get into con- 
flict. On that occasion he was thrown down and 
trampled upon in the street, and received injuries 
so severe, that his life was thought in imminent 
danger. This, I believe, was in 1818 or 1819, 
during a time of political excitement. He was 
appointed to the office of Sheriff-Clerk Depute, of 
the county of Renfrew, under the late Robert 
Walkinshaw, of Parkhouse, the principal clerk, in 
May, 1819, and held that situation with credit till 
November, 1829. 

" His talent for poetry was accompanied by a 
strong taste for the antique^ and I cannot help 
thinking that the last may have its origin in the 
copying of the ancient manuscript for me. While 
in office here, he contributed articles to the Paisley 
Advertiser, and ultimately became its editor. He 
had also a chief hand in commencing and conduct- 
ing a Paisley Monthly Magazine, which lived to 
attain to the size of a goodly volume. It contained 
many contributions from his pen, besides a number 
of curious extracts from documents which his re- 
searches among the records of the Sheriff-Clerk's 
office brought to light. At a recent sale of the 
library of a deceased Paisley gentleman, this Maga- 
zine, though poorly bound, brought the respectable 
price of 22s. Qd. His temperament was enthusias- 
tic, kind, and convivial I had a great 

regard for him." 

Upon this outline of Motherwell's history, from 



24 MEMOIR. 

the age of fifteen to tliirty-two, I would remark, in 
the first place, that we learn from it, that eighteen 
of the most valuable years of his life were passed in 
an occupation which presented the fewest possible 
attractions for a man of his habits and pursuits ; and 
in the second place, that if he attained to a certain 
measure of excellency in poetical composition, in cir- 
cumstances so unfavorable to the growth of a poetical 
temper, his merit was all the higher on that account. 
The incident to which Mr. Campbell refers, and 
which he supposes determined his future political 
creed, Motherwell always spoke of with the strongest 
indignation. It occurred during the time of what 
was called the Radical War in the west country 
(1818), and when, as Sherilf-Clerk Depute, he 
was obliged, in obedience to the orders of his 
superiors, to perform many duties which rendered 
him unpopular. A deliberate attempt was made 
to murder him, by throwing him over the bridge 
into the Cart, and he has often assured me, that he 
was actually raised to the top of the parapet wall 
by the infuriated mob before he was rescued. That 
he should have abandoned liberalism, after such 
treatment would not be surprising ; but the truth 
is, that his pohtical belief was a part of his nature, 
and was very slightly modified by external consid- 
erations. His ideas of the constitution of civil 
society were chivalric, not philosophical ; and if 
others undervalued the virtues of the Middle Ages, 
he certainly overrated them. It was not his custom 
to analyze his emotions too nicely at any period of 
his life ; and I can perfectly understand how he 
may have been captivated as a boy with those 
showy notions, which are more or less prevalent in 
all imperfectly instructed societies, and which have 
so many charms for youthful imaginations. But 
Motherwell was instinctively a Tory, — all the ten- 
dencies of his mind gravitated towards the creed 
of that old and respectable party, — and I am satis- 



MEMOlIi. 25 

fiecl that his monarchical principles would have 
been just as high after he escaped from mere non- 
age, had he never handled a truncheon in defence 
of the public peace on the streets of Paisley. His 
political convictions might be extreme, but they 
were honest. He firmly believed that his opinions 
were founded in truth, and that their vindication 
was essential to the well-being of his country ; nor 
have I ever known a man who had more thoroughly 
identified himself with the doctrines which he main- 
tained and promulgated. 

There is another point noticed by Mr. Campbell, 
namely, his power of sketching. This was a facul- 
ty which he possessed in the highest perfection, so 
much so, that, had he not been a poet, he might 
have been an artist. Many of his manuscripts are 
illustrated at the beginning, after the manner of 
old black-letter volumes and illuminated missals, 
and numerous scraps of paper attest his accurate 
perception of the ludicrous and the horrible, by 
all sorts of queer and grotesque delineations. A 
few strokes of his pen were sufficient for this, and 
it is impossible not to admire the ease which at- 
taches to these figures. His handwriting hkewise 
partook of this peculiarity. It was formal and 
square, and, particularly in the capital letters, re- 
sembled the Chaldee character, constituting, in 
fact, a variety of painting.* 

The winter session of 1818-19 he spent at Glas- 
gow College, where he attended the Latin class, 
under the late Mr. Walker, and the Greek class, 
under the late Mr. Young ; but, as I have already 
stated, he never attained to ordinary proficiency 

* This seems to have been a very early habit. Mr. Crawford 
Speaks of it in these terms : "He was also remarkable for his 
talent for sketching figures of mailed knights, oufoot and mount- 
ed, and all manner of caricatures, which were sketched with 
great life and spirit. The boards of his class-fellows' school 
books were covered with Motherwell's sketches, and it was con- 
sidered a great favor when he gave them one." 



26 MEMOIR. 

in either language, and with the modern tongues 
he was wholly unacquainted. He manifested at 
this time a strong desire to repair the defects of his 
early education ; and in a letter to his friend, the 
late Mr. Robert Walkinshaw, in March, 1818, he ex- 
presses a hope that, should he succeed to the office 
of Sheriff-Clerk Depute, then held by Mr. Walkin- 
shaw, he might be able " to save some little money, 
sufficient to re-launch his frail skiff once more on 
the dead sea of the languages." 

As the office of Sheriff-Clerk Depute brought 
him a considerable income, he spent the greater 
part of it in the purchase of books, and long before 
his removal to Glasgow he had collected a large 
and miscellaneous library. Like most book-fanciers, 
he sometimes sacrificed usefulness to the indulgence 
of a spirit of curiosity ; but in that province of 
literature to which he was chiefly devoted, — poetry 
and the historical romance, — his library was rich. 
Its chief wants were in the department of modern 
history, and moral and philosophical science, in none 
of which subjects can it be said that he took much 
pleasure. His knowledge of them was, consequent- 
ly, defective, and this was both felt and seen when 
politics became his profession. 

It may be naturally supposed of the man who at 
fourteen sketched the outline of Jeanie Morrison, 
that, if he did not actually lisp in numbers, the art 
of versification must have been at least an irresist- 
ible habit, and that sponte sua carmen numeros 
veniehat ad apios ; but when he first committed 
himself publicly to the dangers and allurements of 
rhyme, or where, I have been unable satisfactorily 
to ascertain. In 1818 he contributed some little 
things to a small work published at Greenock, 
called the " Visitor," and for several years after- 
wards he continued to furnish with pieces of origi- 
nal poetry such of his literary friends in Paisley 
and Glasgow as applied to liim for assistance. In 



MEMOIR. 27 

this respect his liberality was exemplary, if not 
prodigal ; but he afterwards collected the best of 
these fugitive productions, and embodied them in 
that volume upon which his reputation as a poet 
must ultimately rest. In 1819, the " Harp of Ren- 
frewshire," * of which he was the editor, appeared 
at Paisley. This work is anonymous ; but it is well 
known to have been brought out under Mother- 
well's care, who supplied the introductory essay, 
which was his first attempt at serious criticism. In 
it he gives a rapid sketch of the poet's of Renfrew- 
shire, beginning with Sir Hugh Montgomerie, who 
died at a very advanced age in 1545, and ending 
with Robert Tannahill, whom he could not have 
known personally, but with whose melancholy his- 
tory he had ample means of becoming acquainted. 
The notes are likewise by him, and are both nu- 
merous and valuable ; and this little volume, Avhich 
is now scarce, may be regarded as a favorable 
specimen of his zeal and diligence. Its chief 
merit, however, is, that it was the herald to a work 
of much larger -pretensions, and with which his 
fame is now closely identified, — " Minstrelsy, An- 
cient and Modern," f which was published at Glas- 
gow, in 1827, and which instantly secured for its 
author an honorable place among the commen- 
tators on our national poetry. The " Historical 
Introduction " is elaborate and full, but I must 
leave it to those who have made such subjects as it 
discusses a study to decide upon its merits ; it is 
enough to state here, that this work brought 
him into direct communication with some men of 
high distinction in the world of letters, and 

* The Harp of Renfrewshire ; a Collection of Songs and other 
Poetical Pieces, many of which are Original ; accompanied with 
Notes, Explanatory, Critical, and Biographical : and a Short Es- 
say on the Poets of Renfrewshire. 1 vol. Paisley, 1819. 

t Minstrelsy ; Ancient and Modern : with an Historical Intro- 
duction, and Notes. By William Motherwell. John Wylie. 
Glasgow, 1827. 



28 MEMOIR. 

amongst others with Sir Walter Scott. The an- 
cient ballad of " Gil Morrice " seems to have 
attracted much of Motherwell's attention. It was 
the foundation of Home's celebrated tragedy of 
" Douglas," and the scene of the melancholy ad- 
venture which it relates was " Carrouside," the 
home of his ancestors. He tells us, moreover, 
that " the green wood " of the ballad was the 
ancient forest of Dundaff, in Stirlingshire, and 
that " Lord Barnard's castle is said to have occu- 
pied a precipitous cliif overhanging the water of 
Carron, on the lands of Halbertshire." * Earls- 
burn, a favorite name with him, is also a small 
stream in that locality, which falls into the Carron, 
and derives its appellation, according to him, from 
the Earl's son, who is the hero of this legendary 
poem. There is internal evidence in his writings 
to show, that he had carefully inquired into this 
matter while residing with his uncle at Muirmill ; 
but it was from an old woman at Paisley, who sang 
the verses to him, that he obtained that copy of the 
ballad which he considered the true one, and which 
led to his correspondence with Sir Walter. His 
idea was, that Gil should have been written 
CHILD, and that Morrice was an obvious cor- 
ruption of NoRYCE, the old English word for 
foster-child. Willie, the page, is called in one of 
the versions, (Mr. Jamieson's,) his " foster-brith- 
er " ; and Motherwell's object would appear to 
have been, to show that between the " child's " 
messenger and himself there existed a stronger 
bond of union than mere feudalism could create. 
In this way, it is to be presumed, he proposed to 
account for " Willie's " undertaking, though reluc- 
tantly, to deliver the message to Lady Barnard 
from her son, the ill-fated Gil, of whose relation- 
ship to that noble person the lad was ignorant. 

*" Minstrelsy," p. 258. 



29 



He accordingly wrote to Sir Walter Scott upon 
the subject, as early as April, 1825, two years i)e- 
fore the " Minstrelsy " appeared, and received from 
that eminent man the following reply : — 

"Abbotsford, 3d May, 1825. 
" Sir, 
" I am honored with your letter covering the 
curious old version of the ballad of ' Gil Morrice,' 
which seems, according to your copy, to be a cor- 
ruption of Child Norrice, or Child Nursling, as we 
would say. As I presume the ballad to be gen- 
uine, and, indeed, see no reason to suspect the 
contrary, the style being simple and ancient, I 
think you should print it exactly as you have 
taken it down, and with a reference to the person 
by whom it is preserved so special as to enable any 
one to ascertain its authenticity who may think it 
worth while. I have asked at different times, the 
late Mr. John Home, concerning the ballad on 
which he was supposed to have founded ' Douglas,' 
but his memory was too imperfect, when I knew 
him, to admit of his giving me any information. I 
have heard my mother, who was fond of the ballad, 
say that when ' Douglas ' was in its height of pop- 
ularity, ' Gil Morrice ' was, to a certain extent, 
rewritten, which renovated copy, of course, in- 
cludes all the new stanzas about ' Minerva's loom,' 
and so forth. Yet there are so many fine old vers- 
es in the common set, that 1 cannot agree to have 
them mixed up even with your set, though more 
ancient, but would like to see them kept quite 
separate, like different sets of the same melody. 
]n fact, I think I did wrong myself, in endeavor- 
ing to make the best possible set of an ancient 
ballad out of several copies obtained from dif- 
ferent quarters, and that, in many respects, if I 
improved the poetry, I spoiled the simplicity of the 
old sonsj. There is no wonder this should be the 



30 MEMOIK. 

case, when one considers that the singers or recit- 
ers' by whom these balhids were preserved and 
handed down must, in general, have had a facility, 
from memory at least, if not from genius, (which 
they might often possess,) of filling up verses 
which they had forgotten, or altering such as they 
might think they could improve. Passing through 
this process in different parts of the country, the 
ballads, admitting that they had one common poet- 
ical original, (which is not to be inferred merely 
from the similitude of the story,) became, in pro- 
gress of time, totally different productions, so far 
as the tone and spirit of each is concerned. In 
such cases, perhaps, it is as well to keep them sep- 
arate, as giving in their original state a more accu- 
rate idea of our ancient poetry, which is the point 
most important in such collections. There is room 
for a very curious essay on the relation which the 
popular poetry of the North of Europe bears to 
that of the South, and even to that of Asia ; and 
the varieties of some of our ballads might be ac- 
counted for by showing that one edition had been 
derived from the French or Norman, another from 
the Danish, and so on, so that, though the sub- 
stance of the dish be the same, the cookery is that 
of foreign and distant cuisiniers. This reasoning 
certainly does not apply to mere brief alterations 
and corruptions, which do not, as it were, change 
the tone and form of the original. 

" You will observe that I have no information to 
give respecting ' Gil Morrice,' so I might as well, 
perhaps, have saved you the trouble of this long 
letter. 

" I am. Sir, 

" Your obliged, humble servt., 

" Walter Scott." 

Sir Walter and Motherwell never met, but after 
the death of that great man he performed a pil- 



MEMOIR. 31 

griiuage to Abbotsford ; and, as I am informed, was 
wont to say that " nothing in that splendid man- 
sion had aifected him so much as Sir Walter's 
staif, with the bit dibble at the end of it." * Of 
course, in the forthcoming edition of the " Minstrel- 
sy," he followed the advice of the illustrious critic, 
and kept his own copy of the ballad distinct from 
the others, and so it stands in the volume. 

In 1828 the Paisley Magazine was begun by 
Motherwell, and carried on by him, with the assist- 
ance of his friends, for a year. It is, undoubtedly, 
what Mr. Campbell represents it, — a respectable 
provincial work ; and in it, for the first time, ap- 
peared some of the poet's best pieces, such as The 
Sword Chant of Thorstein Kaudi, — Midnight and 
Moonshine, — The AVater ! the Water ! — The Woo- 
ing Song of Jarl Egill Skallgrim, — and Wearie's 
Well. His position, however, had now changed, 
and it will be necessary to explain how this was 
brought about. 

In the year 1826 a newspaper was begun in 
Paisley, called the " Paisley Advertiser." Its poli- 
tics were conservative and ministerial, and its first 
editor was a Mr. John Goldie, who had been for- 
merly connected with an Ayr journal. He died 
suddenly within a year, and was succeeded in his 
office by Mr. William Kennedy, an Irish gentle- 
man of distinguished poetical abilities, and the 
author of the pretty poem called " The Arrow 
and the Kose " ; and also of a little volume of poems 
entitled " Fitful Fancies." 

Between Mr. Kennedy and Motherwell there 
sprang up a strong friendship. They were both 
addicted to literature and poetry; they thought 
alike on matters political, and were nearly of an 
age. It is not surprising, therefore, that Mother- 
well should have become a contributor and a pro- 

* Notes by Mr. Charles Hutchison. 



32 MEMOIK. 

prietor, and still less so that, on the retirement of 
Mr. Kennedy, in 1828, he should have succeeded 
him as editor of that paper. What success he may 
have had in his new capacity I know not ; but on 
the retirement of Mr. James M'Queen from the 
management of the Glasgow Courier, in 1830, Mr. 
Motherwell was invited by the proprietors of that 
journal to take his place ; and all things being 
satisfactorily arranged, he left Paisley and took up 
his abode in Glasgow in the beginning of that year. 
The first number of the Courier, which appeared 
after his accession to the office of editor, has the 
date of 2d February, 1830 ; and he continued in 
connection with that paper till his death in Novem- 
ber, 1835. 

Whether journalism was exactly the vocation 
that was best suited to a man of his tastes and 
peculiar acquirements, I shall not take upon me to 
determine ; but there can be no doubt that he en- 
tered upon his new duties at Glasgow at a time of 
great difficulty and considerable public danger. 
The political world was at that moment upheaved 
from its foundations, and the revolution in France, 
consequent upon the three glorious days of July, 
followed as that event was by the accession of Lord 
Grey's administration, and the Reform Bill excite- 
ment, presented to a lover of the olden ways a 
mass of embarrassment, which we may admit to 
have been unsurmountable. Whatever Mother- 
well's views may have been in boyhood, they were 
now fixed. He saw one after another of his most 
cherished prejudices first derided, and then de- 
stroyed. Change followed change with the rapid- 
ity of lightning, and, in the midst of this universal 
whirlwind, the only man in this immense com- 
munity who was expected to keep himself free 
from the common contagion, and to observe the 
most philosophical abstinence in the discussion of 
passing events, was the Tory editor of the Tory 



MEMOIR. 33 

newspaper ! Mere humanity is not equal to so 
great a trial as this, and Motherwell was not the 
man to affect to undergo it. He entered into the 
strife with all his soul ; and whatever difference of 
opinion may have formerly prevailed as to his 
style of defence, it will not be denied by his bitter- 
est political enemies, (for I would persuade myself 
that, personally, he had and could have none,) that 
he conducted his case for many years, against 
frightful odds, with exemplary zeal, courage, and 
jfidelity. It would be easy, no doubt, to select from 
his writings at that time passages which might 
appear objectionable ; but the same remark would 
apply equally to his opponents ; and those only 
who have had some experience of a controversial 
life, and of the perplexities which beset a writer 
for the piiblic press in a provincial town, can form 
an adequate conception of the diiliculties with 
which Motherwell was at that juncture surrounded. 
The public mind is now comparatively cool ; it 
was then at a boiling heat, and in the fierce con- 
test of parties passions were evoked which over- 
mastered reason, and laid judgment prostrate in 
the dust. That in such a tumult he, a man of 
wann and impetuous temperament, should have 
stood erect and looked down with complacent in- 
difference on the scene below was impossible ; nor 
did he make the attempt. He defended his prin- 
ciples from the assaults daily and hourly made 
upon them, and it was his duty to do so; but if in 
the execution of that duty he transgressed the 
established laws of political warfare, or outraged 
any of the conventional courtesies of life, then he 
Avas blamable. I do not say that this was the case, 
because I do not think so ; not that I would be un- 
derstood as approving of all that he wrote in these 
times, but that, considering the circumstances in 
which he was placed, his abstinence from a certain 
measure of vehemence would have argued a neu- 
3 



34 MEMOIR. 

trality of feeling on the great questions of the day, 
which would have literally disqualified him for the 
office that he held. Let us be just to the dead, 
then, and grant that what was well -was due to the 
man, and that what was amiss was chargeable upon 
the infirmity of our common nature. 

In his editorial capacity Motherwell occasionally 
drew upon his poetical faculty, and in general suc- 
cessfully, as the following y^M cVesprit Avill show. It 
appeared early in 1833, when the Reform Bill was 
supposed to be in danger, and when its friends in 
Glasgow exhibited an unusual degree of anxiety 
respecting it. T — m A — k — n is the late Mr. 
Thomas Aitkinsoii, bookseller, who was a very 
keen, liberal politician. M'P — n Avas his neighbor 
Mr. M'Phun, likewise a bpokseller, and agent for 
the " Sun " newspaper. Sir D. K. S — f — d is the late 
Sir D. K. Sandford, the accomplished Professor of 
Greek in the University of Glasgow, who was at 
that time an ardent reformer, and Avhose prema- 
ture and much-lamented death was probably ac- 
celerated by the excitement of that miserable 
period. With these explanations this clever trifle 
will be intelligible : — 

THE REFORMER'S GARLAND. 

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

Time, — " Young Lochinvar.^^ 

T — 111 A — k — n mounted his berry brown steed, 
Through all the West Country unequalled for speed; 
And, save an odd threepence to pay for the toll, 
He carried no weight but a placard in scroll. 
So lightly and jaunty he eastward did hie, 
"With the Bill in his heart and the Mail in his eye; — 
He swore that, for once, he would e-clipse the " Sun," * 
And darken the shine of his neighbor, M'P — n. 

Camalchie folk stared, and Tallci'oss stood abeigh, 
So rapid he rode, and the steed was so skeigh ; 

* This is an allusion to the '• Sun," London newspaper, at that 
time forwarded by special express to Glasgow. 



MEMOIR. 35 

But Tom did not value his horsem:inlil<e skill; 

His tlioughts were " Reforai," and "naught but the 

Bill." 
Yea, even in passing the scene at Carmyle,* 
The Whig field of honor seemed worthless the while; — 
For still he expected to e-clipse the '' Sun," 
And darken the shine of his neighbor, MT — n. 

Then onward he sped, till he came to a turn 
Of the road, when the Guard of the Mail cried, " Ad- 
journ! " 
And about ship went Tom, and the spur did apply, 
And the Stationer, truly, for once seemed to flij. 
His Tontine constituents soon did he hail. 
For near eighteen minutes he distanced the Mail; 
The "Adjourn" was repeated, e-clipsed was the " Sun," 
The skine was o'erclouded of neighbor M'P — n. 

Sir D K. S — f— d next mounted his beast. 

With its tail to* the west and its head to the east. 

And on like a War Knight the brute he did ui'ge. 

To nose the effect of the famed " Russell Purge; " 

But at Bothwell the JMail Guard I'oared out, " Lost by" 

eight! " 
When about went the prad, as it had taken fright; 
Sir Dan he stuck on, and again 'clipsed the " Sun," 
To the utter confounding of neighbor M'P — n. 

That Motherwell's prospects were improved by 
a removal tt Glasgow may be admitted, since that 
city, from its greater size, would necessarily afford 
a wider field for the display of his abilities ; but I 
have many doubts whether the change was friendly 
to the development and cultivation of his poetical 
faculty. The charge of a three-times-a-week paper 
leaves little leisure for the prosecution of a formal 
course of study, while the distracting anxieties, 
which are inseparable from political warfare, are 
altogether incompatible with that repose of mind 
which is essential to the achievement of distinction 
in any walk of literature. It is my impression, 
therefore, that his Muse was comparatively idle in 

* The scene of a recent duel, with the distance marked out by 
two bricks. 



36 MEMOIR. 

Glasgow, and that his attention was directed to the 
improvement of old, rather than to the composition 
of new poems. Tliis idea is partially confirmed by 
an inspection of two quarto volumes of manuscript 
pieces which he left behind him, the one of which 
is nearly a transcript of the other, and was ob- 
viously executed at Glasgow; and it is farther 
strengthened by the fact, that he published little, 
after he came to this city, which had not been 
written long before. It would be idle to talk of 
the genius loci in such circumstances, for the char- 
acter of that mysterious lady must be much the 
same in both places, and is not particularly spirit- 
ual in either ; but there may be something in the 
disruption of old and established ties, something in 
the absence of familiar faces and well-known voices, 
and something in the destruction of those secret 
and inexplicable material sympathies, which make 
one spot of earth more than another the home of a 
man's soul. Whether any or all of these influences 
may have affected him, I shall not take upon me 
positively to afhrm ; but I think myself so far justi- 
fied in the conclusion at which I have arrived by 
the subsequent steps of his history, which indicate 
a sluggish action, if not an absolute torpor of his 
creative energies. 

In 1832 a publication was started in Glasgow, 
under the direction of Mr. John Strang, the author 
of two interesting volumes of Travels in Germany, 
called " The Day," to which Motherwell contributed 
largely. In that periodical there appeared for the 
first time the following poetical pieces from his 
pen : — The Serenade, — The Solemn Song of a 
Righteous Hearte, — Elfinland Wud, — The Cove- 
nanters' Battle-Chant, — Caveat to the Wind, — 
What is Glory ? What is Fame ? — A Solemn 
Conceit, — The Parting, — The Ettin Lang o' Siller- 
wood, — and. Spirits of Light I Spirits of Shade ! 
— all of which, with the exception of the last two, 



MP^MOIR. 37 

he afterwards embodied in his vohime.* He also 
communicated to that work a series of humorous 
papers in prose, entitled, " Memoirs of a Paisley 
Bailie," which aiforded considerable amusement at 
the time ; and towards the end of this year he col- 
lected his scattered poetical fragments, and formed 
them into a small volume, with the title of " Poems, 
Narrative and Lyrical," which he dedicated to his 
friend Kennedy. Most of these pieces, if not the 
whole of them, were reprints. I am not quite sure 
about the Battle-Flag of Sigurd, but I rather think 
it appeared originally in the pages of the Paisley 
Advertiser. 

This volume was, upon the whole, well received. 
There could be no doubt about the high quality of 
the poetry which an unknown author had ventured 
thus to submit to the world, but its character was 
peculiar, and for the most part not fitted for exten- 
sive popularity ; and the season which was chosen 
for its introduction was eminently unfavorable to 
its chances of immediate success. No adventitious 
murmurs of applause had announced its approach, 
and at a time when little was heard but the noise 
of political contention, it was perhaps too much to 
expect that a comparatively obscure bard should 
draw towards himself a large share of the public 
notice, let his abilities be what they might. This 
work, hoAvever, gave Motherwell, what it had been 
the object of his life to attain, a place among the 
poets of Britain; and it carrieil his name into 
quarters which it never would have otherwise 

* It is needless to add, that these were gratuitous contributious, 
and that their author neither expected nor received anything for 
them. It was in this year that Jeanie Morrison appeared in an 
Edinburgh magazine, and for that exquisite lyrical composition 
he was paid — thirty shillings! George Buchanan was not fay 
wrong when he exclaimed, three hundi-ed years ago, 

" Denique quicquid agis, comes assidet improba egestas 
Sive poema canis, sive poema doces." 



reached. A commendatory criticism in Black- 
wood's Magazine for April, 1833, proclaimed his 
pretentions wherever the Enghsh language is read ; 
and, though his nature was too modest and too 
manly for the display of any open exultation at 
the triumph which he had so honorably won, he 
never ceased to feel the deepest gratitude to the 
distinguished reviewer, whom he knew to be a 
consummate judge of poetical merit, and for whose 
genius and character he always felt and expressed 
the warmest admiration. 

■ The last work in which Motherwell engaged, 
and which he did not live to complete, was a joint 
edition of Burns's works by him and James Hogg, 
the Ettrick Shephei'd.* His share iii this produc- 
tion consisted merely of occasional notes, critical 
and explanatory, which are marked with the letter 
M., and in which he exhil)its much knowledge of 
the contemporary history of Burns's period, and 
his usual discrimination as a commentator. The 
fifth and last volume contains the Life of the Ayr- 
shire Poet, by Hogg ; but before it appeared, his 
comparatively youthful coadjutor was no more.f 

In August, 1835, Motherwell was summoned to 
London, to appear before a committee of the House 
of Commons, which had been appointed to take 
evidence as to the constitution and practices of the 
Orange Society, with a view to its suppression. 
He had unluckily allowed himself to be enrolled 
as a member of that association, and was one of the 



* The Works of Robert Burns, edited by the Ettrick Shepherd 
and William Motherwell, Esq. '5 vols. Glasgow : Archd. Ful- 
lerton & Co. 1836. 

t It should have been mentioned in its proper place, that in 
the year 1832 Motherwell supplied a preface of some length to 
Henderson's volume of Scottish Proverbs. Andrew Henderson 
was a portrait painter of considerable celebrity in Glasgow, and 
an intimate friend of the Poet. He was a man of abrupt man- 
ners, but of great honesty of nature, and capable of both stead- 
fast and warm attachments. He pre-deceased Motherwell by 
about six months. 



MEMOIR. 39 

district secretaries for the West of Scotland. There 
IS no incident in his history which it more perplexes 
me fo account for than this. He had no connec- 
tion with Ireland, direct or indirect, nor had he 
ever been in that island in his life, and few men, in 
my opinion, were less qualified by previous habits 
of study to appreciate the value of the mixed ques- 
tions of civil and ecclesiastical polity which that 
body professed to discuss ; yet he entered with 
characteristic warmth into its schemes, and became 
one of the agents employed in the extension of its 
principles. To his mind, Orangeism would seem 
to have presented itself under the guise of a whole- 
some influence of general apphcability, which it 
was desirable to perpetuate, instead of being, Avhat 
it really was, a particular form of one of those nu- 
merous factions into which Irish society is divided. 
It would not appear to have occurred to him, 
that whatever the merits, real or imaginary, of the 
Orange confederacy might be, its introduction into 
Scotland could be attended with no benefits what- 
ever ; and that if it was destined ever to achieve 
advantages of a permanent kind, it was only on 
the soil which had generated and nourished it that 
this could ha})pen. As an antagonist to Popery 
and Jacobitisni, it was certainly not wanted in 
Presbyterian Scotland ; and a little reflection might 
have satisfied him, that the civil and religious rights 
of the people of this country were not to be upheld 
through the instrumentality of an Hibernian polit- 
ical fraternity, which had outlived the necessity 
tJiat gave it birth, and which was now respectable 
only from the historical associations-connected with 
its origin, and the recollection of the services which 
it had formerly rendered to the cause of constitu- 
tional government in Ireland. His adhesion to 
this body was, therefore, a decided error in judg- 
ment, while it was attended with this additional 
inconvenience, that it gave rise to the suspicion 



40 MEMOIR. 

that the party, whose public representative he was, 
had become favorable to a system of political prop- 
agandism, and was not unwilling to patronize, in 
an underhand way, that which its general creed 
repudiated. Legitimate and open combination, it 
did not, because it could not, reject ; but it pro- 
fessed to hold secret societies in abhorrence ; and 
though the Orange body might not, in strictness of 
speech, deserve to be so called, it had too many of • 
the characteristics of a sectarian club to be agree- 
able to sober-minded Scotchmen. This act, how- 
ever, was purely personal, and Avas confined to 
Motherwell and one or two of his more intimate 
friends ; and I distinctly remember, that there was 
no subject upon which he was more reserved, and 
none upon which he bore a little raillery with less 
equanimity, than upon his alliance with Irish 
Orangeism. By this time, however, the evil spirit 
of political acerbity had displaced the gentler im- 
pulses of his nature, and William MotherAvell had 
exchanged the catholicity of poetry for the fanati- 
cism of social exclusiveness ! * 

Motherwell remained in London for about a 
week, and there can be no doubt that he exhibited 
great mental infirmity before the committee, — in 
common speech, he " broke down." That this did 
not result from any want of courage on his part, 
will be at once admitted by those who knew the 
man ; but it is proper to observe, that in such cir- 
cumstances he was constitutionally "unready" and 
slow of utterance. ' He not only required time to 
arrange his ideas and to consolidate his thoughts, 
on the most ordinary occasions, but he was habit- 
ually slow, and feven confused, in the expression 
of them. No ordeal could, therefore, be more em- 



* That this incident was hurtful to his health was the general 
impression of his friends. Mr. Hutchison, who saw him fre- 
quently before he set out for London, says " that he was greatly 



MEMOIR. 41 

barrassing to liim tlian a formal examination before 
a body of sharp-witted men, whose pleasure it not 
infrequently is to lay snares for an inexperienced 
witness : but besides this, I am convinced that on 
this particular point Motherwell was at fault as to 
knowledo-e, — that he had never seriously inquired 
of himself what Orangeism was, or what object was 
to be gained by its propagation, — and that, conse- 
quently, he must have failed when rigorously in- 
terrogated by an intelligent and authoritative 
tribunal about these matters. Let me farther 
add, in explanation of this melancholy occurrence, 
that it has been long my fixed impression that he 
was laboring under the effects of the approaches 
of that insidious disease (softening of the brain), 
which destroyed him a few months afterwards ; and 
those who remember the circumstances attendant 
upon his visit to the Metropolis, and the strange 
fancies which haunted him while there, will prob- 
ably have little hesitation in accepting this apology 
for what we may now call an involuntary weak- 
ness. The indications of this mental debility did 
not escape the observation of the gentlemen com- 
posing the committee ; and Mr. Wallace, of Kelly, 
at that time member for Greenock, with a kindness 
which was the more honorable to him that Mother- 
well had frequently spoken of him in his editorial 
capacity with considerable severity, paid him 
marked attention ; and, perceiving how matters 
really stood, lost no time in getting his bewildered 
countryman shipped off to Scotland. 

On his return he resumed his old habits of life, 
and was, to all outward appearance, in perfect 
health. On Saturday, the 31st day of October, 
1835, he dined and spent the evening at the house 
of a gentleman in the suburbs of Glasgow. There 
was dancing, and it was observed that he bled 
freely at the nose, which was attributed to the 
heated state of the apartments. On going into 



42 ' MEMOIR. 

the open air for a short time, the bleeding stopped, 
and at half-past ten he left his friend's house in the 
company of the late Mr. Robert M'Nish, (better 
known as the Modern Pythagorean,) and the late 
Mr. Philip Ramsay, and from these gentlemen he 
parted about eleven o'clock. At four o'clock on 
the morning of the 1st of November he was sud- 
denly struck while in bed with a violent shock of 
apoplexy, which almost instantly deprived him of 
consciousness. He had simply time to exclaim, 
" My head ! My head ! " when he fell back on the 
pillow, and never spoke more. I saw him iu ray 
professional capacity about half-past six, having 
been sent for by the medical man who was first 
called in, but the case was then hopeless, and had 
been obviously so from the first; knowing, how- 
ever, that a deep interest was felt in his fate, and 
anxious that he should have the benefit of the ad- 
vice of a senior practitioner, I sent for my late 
friend, Dr. William Young, but before he arrived 
he was dead. He expired quietly, and without 
suffering, at eight o'clock, thus closing a life of in- 
cessant labor, and of some anxiety, not unmixed 
with enjoyment, at the early age of thirty-seven. 

He was buried in the Necropolis, a new ceme- 
tery, situated over against the Cathedral, on Thurs- 
day, the 5th of November ; and his remains were 
followed to the grave by a large assemblage of 
friends, of all shades of political opinion ; nor were 
the compositors and pressmen of the Courier office, 
headed by their foreman, the late Mr. Andrew 
Tough, the least interesting part of that proces- 
sion.^ The body was borne to the ground on men's 
shoulders, and the pall-bearers were, — head, Mr. 
C. A. Motherwell, his nephew ; foot, Mr. — now Sir 
James — Campbell; sides, Mr. AVhyte, Mr. M'Laren, 
Mr. M' Arthur, Mr. Philip Ramsay, Captain Andrew 
Hamilton, Sheriff Campbell.* 

* It is painful to bo obliged to state, that Motherwell's grave 



MEMOIR. 43 

Motherwell's death was deeply regretted by the 
citizens of Glasgow, generally, and with unaffected 
sorrow by his more immediate relatives, friends, 
and associates. Its suddenness invested it with a 
melancholy interest; and in the presence of that 
dread messenger whose approach no eye can de- 
tect, and whose stern impartiality makes no distinc- 
tion of age, sex, or condition, it Avas felt that the 
tempest of political warfare should be stilled, and 
that those hollow differences, which so often sepa- 
rate kindred spirits in life, should be buried in that 
grave which now contained the mortal remains of ' 
a man of genius and of worth. The records of his 
demise, which appeared in the different news- 
papers, were creditable to their conductors, and in-- 
dicated an anxious desire to do honor to his merits; 
and I have sincere pleasure in reproducing, after 
the lapse of eleven years, the handsome testimony 
which was at that time borne to his character by 
his public opponent, but private friend, Mr. Wilham 
Weir, then editor of the Glasgow Argus : — 

" This accomplished gentleman died- suddenly on 
Sunday morning. Mr. Motherwell's antiquarian 
knowledge was extensive; and, as the bent of his 
mind towards the past tinged his poetry, so his 
imagination lent grace and vitality to his knowl- 
edge. . A small volume of lyrical poems, published 
some years back by Mr. Motherwell, is full of ten- 
der and unobtrusive beauty. There are few 
pieces more touching, in the whole range of Scot- 
tish poetry, than his ' Jeanie Morrison.' A series 

cannot be discovered without the assistance of a guide, not being 
marked by even a headstone and the initials W. M. This is not 
as it should be ; and I am sure that it is only necessary to call 
the attention of his surviving friends to a circumstance so little 
creditable to all of us, to have this reproach immediately re- 
moved. The grave is situated at the northeastern corner of the 
burying-gi-ound, and at the bend of the road which leads up the 
hill, to the right hand. It is a little triangular space, covered 
with weeds, lying between the tombs of Mr. Wilham Sloan, on 
the right, and Mr. Alexander Patrick, on the left. 



44 MEMOIR. 

of papers published in The Day, entitled ' Memoirs 
of a Paisley Bailie,' are full of grave, quiet, exqui- 
site humor. In addition to these, we have had 
occasion to see fragments of a prose work of some 
extent, which Mr. Motherwell had, we believe, 
almost completed for the press. It is an embodi- 
ment of the old wild legends of the Norsemen, 
(always a favorite theme with the author,) and 
contains passages of surpassing splendor, animated 
by a wayward spirit, half merriment, half pathos. 
Mr. Motherwell was also engaged in making col- 
lections for a life of Tannahill, — a work much 
wanted, and which, since we have lost him, we 
know ojp no other man alive able to supply. Mr. 
Motherwell is a loss in his own peculiar circle of 
literature. He will be missed by his antiquarian 
and poetical associates. But he will be more 
deeply and lastingly missed in the circle of his 
personal friends, and of the already too much nar- 
rowed circle of his family. This hurried and in- 
adequate tribute is paid to him by one who, 
decidedly opposed to him on pubhc grounds, and 
placed in immediate collision with him, was yet 
proud to call him his friend, and laments his loss." 
In personal appearance, Motherwell was under- 
sized, not exceeding, I should think, five feet five, 
or thereby, in height ; but he was vigorously and 
well formed, and possessed great muscular strength. 
His bust was that of a large, manly figure, the de- 
ficiency in his stature being, as generally happens 
in such cases, in his limbs, which, though gracefully 
turned, were short. His head was large, and his 
brow ample. His eyes, which were small and 
deeply set, were surmounted by bushy eyebrows. 
His face was square, with prominent cheekbones, 
and his nose wanting in symmetry. His mouth 
was, perhaps, the most unexceptionable feature of 
his countenance, and indicated great firmness, as 
well as benevolence of character. His hair was of 



MEMOIR. 45 

a dark brown color, and, besides bei'ng abundant in 
quantity, inclined to curl. In his dress, he was 
neat and plain, and scrupulously clean. The 
vU/nette affixed to this volume is an excellent like- 
ness, and is fitted to convey a faithful impression 
of his general appearance. 

In his manners he was moflest and unpretending, 
and in general society he spoke but little. His 
conversational powers, in fact, were not high; but 
in the comj^any of his more intimate friends he 
was free and unreserved, and entered with a keen 
relish into the amusements of the hour. ^Vhen 
excited, as he was apt occasionally to be when the 
conversation turned upon any subject in which he 
took an interest, he displayed much enthusiasm, 
and threw into his action considerable energy ; but 
this seldom happened, and only in moments of total 
relaxation from all restraint. He was decidedly 
social in his tastes, and had nothing of the ancho- 
rite about him ; and at one period of his life he was 
addicted to practical joking. Some of his exploits 
in this way were amusing enough ; but the habit 
was ultimately abandoned, as it threatened to lead 
to disagreeable consequences, and was improper in 
itself He was fond of manly exercises, such as 
boxing, in which he took lessons from a Negro 
pugilist, and sword-playing, in the niceties of which 
he was instructed by that eminent master of fence, 
M. Foucart. He was also a passionate admirer of 
the military art ; and there can be no doubt that, 
had circumstances admitted of his exhibiting his 
military virtues, he would have made a good sol- 
dier. In 1820 he served in the Paisley Rifle Corps, 
as sergeant, and latterly, as a trooper, in the regi- 
ment of Renfrewshire Yeomanry Cavalry, which 
was commanded by the late Sir Michael Shaw 
Stewart. He was fond of this kind of life, and 
was punctual in his attendance upon the Yeomanry 
balls which were given in the county. It would 



46 MEMOIR. 

seem, likewise, that he was a good rower, but I do not 
think that the ocean had many attractions for him. 

In his relations as brother and friend his conduct 
was irreproachable. I have known few eqnally 
disinterested men, and none more upright or hon- 
orable in their dealings with others. He could not 
but be aware that he possessed great and peculiar 
powers ; but he never betrayed any consciousness 
of this, and was utterly free from literary vanity. 
Of jealousy, that abiding reproach to men of let- 
ters, he had not one particle ; nor do I remember 
ever to have heard him utter a harsh sentence re- 
specting any human being. His political antipa- 
thies were strong, but his personal animosities Avere 
weak ; not that he had not his likings and dislik- 
ings, like other men, but that his nature was too 
generous to adopt, and still more to cherish, un- 
kindly feelings towards any one. No better proof 
of this quaHty could be given than this, that many 
of his most intimate and best loved friends were 
his political antagonists, and that his premature 
death was regretted by none more sincerely than 
by those gentlemen, who knew him well and 
esteemed him highly. Of this fine trait of char- 
acter, the following letter affords a pleasing illus- 
tration. Mr. Carrick, in whose behalf it was 
wi'itten, was a meritorious but unsuccessful literary 
man,* who was an applicant for the office of editor 
to a Kilmarnock journal ; and it will be seen from 
it that Motherwell, though decidedly opposed to 
him in politics, exerted himself strenuously in his 
favor. 

" CouRiKR Office, Gt.asgow, 
" November 28, 1*833. 
" To Mr. David Robertson: — 

" My dear Sir, — Understanding that a news- 
paper is about to be established in Kilmarnock, 

* Author of the Life of Sir William Wallace, which was writ- 
ten for Constable's Miscellany, in 1825. 



MEMOIR. 4 7 

and that my friend, Mr. J. D. Carriek, (present 
editor of the Perth Advertiser,) has offered him- 
self as a candidate for its editorship, I wish you 
would interest yourself on his behalf among those 
who may have the appointment in their hands. 

" Unfortunately, I neither know the proprietors 
of the projected journal, nor any person of influ- 
ence in Kilmarnock, having a likelihood of being 
connected with it, otherwise I should have pre- 
ferred addressing them personally on this subject, 
in place of through you. Be this as it may, I would 
fain trust that my disinterested and unsolicited 
opinion of the talents and literary attainments of 
Mr. Carriek, in Avhatever shape, laid before the 
proprietors, may be of some use to a most deserv- 
ing individual in his canvass. 

" With Mr. Carriek and with his writings, both 
as a literary character, and as the conductor of a 
very inteUigent weekly paper, I have been long 
familiar; and to the taste, tact, judgment, knowl- 
edge, and research displayed in these writings, I 
can bear the most unqualified testimony. Mr. Car- 
riek and I, as you well know, have the misfortune 
to be opposed to each other in political sentiments ; 
but that circumstance detracts nothing from his 
merits in my eyes. Perhaps, in the present case, 
it may even advance his interest ; for I am given 
to understand, that the Kilmarnock yjaper is to be 
conducted on what are called Liberal or Reform 
principles, and to these, in their popular accepta- 
tion, T have never, either in my public or private 
capacity, concealed my most rooted hostility. If I 
am well informed, tlien, as to the political views 
entertained by the proprietors of the contemplated 
journal, my decided conviction is, that they never 
could light upon a more energetic and uncom- 
promising, and, at the same time, prudent, saga- 
cious, and enlightened advocate of their principles, 
than they will find in the person of Mr. Carrirck. 



48 MEMOIR. 

"In the management of a paper he has had 
large experience ; his taste in selection is excel- 
lent ; and in getting up some of those witty and 
good-humored paragraphs, which conduce so much 
to the interest of the columns of a provincial 
paper, and, in consequence, extend its circulation, 
I scarcely know his equal. My friend, Macdiar- 
mid, of the Dumfries Courier, has, in hiss own 
peculiar walk, a formidable rival in Mr. Cai-rick. 
As to his eminent qualifications in a higher point 
of view, his historical works and political essays 
aflfbrd the best of all evidence ; but as these, in all 
probability, will be submitted to the committee in- 
trusted with the nomination of editor, I need not 
furfclier enlarge on them, for sure I am, that the 
committee will think with me, that they every way 
support Mr. Carrick's claims to extensive literary 
and political acquirements, and furnish the best of 
all guaranties for the creditable discharge of his 
duties as an editor. 

" My dear Sir, in conclusion, I have only again 
to beg, that you will use your best influence to 
back the feeble and inadequate testimony I have 
borne to the abihties of a common friend, — of one 
who, in every relation of lite, has always shown 
himself a most estimable character. 
" Yours faithfully, 

" W. Motherwell." 

It would be easy to multiply instances of this 
kind, were I not afraid of trespassing upon the in- 
dulgence of the reader, for his correspondence 
abounds in them ; but I cannot pass over in silence 
his intimacy with R. A. Smith, a man to whom he 
was sincerely attached, and with whom, till death, 
he cultivated a friendship which was unbroken by 
even a passing cloud. 

Smith was born at Reading, in Berkshire, in 
1779. His father was a native of West Calder, in 



MEMOIR. 49 

Lanarkshire, and his mother an Englishwoman of 
respectable connections. In the year 17 73, his 
father emigrated to England, in consequence of 
the dulness of the silk-weaving trade, but returned 
to Paisley in 1800, after an absence of seventeen 
years, bringing with him his son, whom he intended 
to educate to the loom. This, however, Avas found 
to be impossible. Nature had furnished the lad 
with the most delicate musical sensibihties, and, af- 
ter an ineffectual struggle with the ruling passion, 
music became the business of his life. He attained 
to considerable provincial distinction, and com- 
posed original music for the following songs of the 
poet Tannahill, whose intimate friend he was : — ■ 
Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane, — The Lass of Ar- 
ranteenie, — The Harper of Mull, — Langsyne be- 
side the Woodland Burn, — Our Bonnie Scots 
Lads, — Despairing Mary, — Wi' waefu' heart and 
sorrowin' ee, — The Maniac's Song, — Poor Tom's 
Farewell, — The Soldier's Widow, — and. We'll 
meet beside the Dusky Glen. 

In 1823 he removed to Edinburgh, at the solici- 
tation of the late Rev. Dr. Andrew Thomson, where 
he led the choir of St. George's Church, of which 
Dr. Thomson was the incumbent, and where he 
died, in January, 1829. Between him and Moth- 
erwell there existed a warm friendship, arising, no 
doubt, from a congeniality of tastes on many 
points ; but, on the part of the latter, strengthened 
by a sincere respect for the virtues as well as the 
genius of the man. Smith had to contend through 
life, not only with narrow means and domestic dis- 
comfort, but against the pressure of a constitutional 
melancholy, which occasionally impaired the vigor 
of his tine faculties. His real griefs — of which he 
had a full share — were, therefore, increased by 
some that were imaginary ; and he Avas obviously 
accustomed, not only to lean upon the stronger 
mind of his friend, in his moments of depression, 
4 



50 MEMOIR. 

but to seek for sympathy in his distress, which, it is 
needless to add, was never refused. In November, 
1826, Smith thus writes to him : — 

" I would have written you long ere this, but have 
been prevented by an amount of domestic distress 
sufficient to drive all romance out of my mind ; and 
you must be aware that without a considerable 
portion of that delightful commodity no good music 
can be engendered. To be serious, my dear friend, 
two of my family, my eldest daughter and youngest 
son, are at this moment lying dangerously ill of the 
typhus fever. I hope that I may escape the con- 
tagion, but I have sometimes rather melancholy 
forebodings ; and in the midst of all this I am obliged 
to sing professionally every day, and mask my 
face with smiles, to cover the throbbings of a sear- 
ed and lonely heart." 

To this sad effusion Motherwell returned the 
following characteristic reply : — 

" Your domestic afflictions deeply grieve me. I 
trust by this time, however, that your children 
have mended, and that you are no sufferer by 
their malady. Kennedy and I have been shedding 
tears over your calamities, and praying to Heaven 
that you may have strength of spirits to bear up 
under such severe dispensations. We both, albeit 
we have no family afflictions to mourn over, have 
yet much to irritate and vex us, — much, much 
indeed, to sour the temper and sadden the coun- 
tenance ; but these things must be borne with 
patiently. It is folly of the worst description, to 

let thought kill us before our time I hope 

to hear from you soon, and to learn that you are 
in better spirits, and that the causes which have 
depressed them are happily removed. Kennedy 
joins me in warm and sincere prayers that this 
may speedily be the case." 

Motherwell was decidedly superstitious ; that is, 
he had an absolute and unqualified belief in the 



MEMOIR. 51 

reality of those spectral illusions, which, under 
whatever name designated, have played so impor- 
tant a part in the history of human credulity 
from the dawn of time downwards. Upon this 
point he was tenacious, and, as he fortified himself 
by what he supposed to be facts, he was wont to 
wax warm in defence of his Rosicrucian theory, 
when it chanced to be assailed. It is no reproach 
to his memory to say that his logic upon such a 
subject was necessarily defectiv.e, and it would be 
altogether unjust to condemn as a weakness his 
participation in an infirmity which has so often 
attached itself to the highest created intelligences. 

His habits of poetical composition were, 1 sus- 
pect, slow and even laborious, and there is ample 
evidence in his manuscripts to show that the divine 
cestrum was not always at conmiand when mostf 
needed. That he prepared his productions with 
great care before he committed them to the press, 
or even inserted them in any of his commonplace- 
books, is certain ; and the history of many of his 
freest compositions, could it be obtained, would 
demonstrate that he never forgot the Horatian pre- 
cept, but wisely remembered that nescit vox rnissa 
reverti. Of Jeanie ^lorrison, for example, there 
exist at least two rough draughts, if not more, in 
which this process of elaboration is very distinct, 
and out of which the poem as it now stands was 
wrought. There are, of course, different versions 
of particular stanzas, but the leading ideas and 
images are the same in all ; and as he was thirty- 
four years of age when he published the ballad in 
its present form, we thus see that this single pro- 
duction was, in a cei'tain sense, the work of a life.* 

In his habits of study he was necessarily desultory. 

* I would not be understood as disputing t]i6 fact, that he 
sketched the outline of this poem at fourteen, because I see no 
just reason to doubt it ; but the earliest copy now existing was 
written when he was eighteen, or perhaps twenty. 



52 MEMOIR. 

No one who is engaged in the active business of 
the world can be otherwise ; but except in that 
particular and somewhat narrow department of 
literature for which he had contracted so strong a 
partiality in early life, it cannot be said of Mother- 
well that he was a " Avell-read " man. With phys- 
ical science he was but slightly acquainted, and 
he had neglected general history, including even 
that of his own country, to an extraordinary de- 
gree. From some peculiarity of temperament which 
is not easily explained, he preferred such writers as 
Holinshed and IS to we to Hume and Hallam ; and 
the only modern historical work of any note that I 
ever recollect to have heard him speak of, was 
Sharon Turner's History of the Anglo-Saxons. 
He had likewise a strong distaste to what is com- 
monly called metaphysics, and particularly for the 
writers of the Scotch school, of whom he some- 
times spoke in terms of greater confidence than 
his accj:uaintance with their works entitled him to 
do ; but he professed a deep reverence for Cole- 
ridge, whose Friend he considered a masterpiece 
of philosophy. I do not recollect of ever having 
heard him even allude to Burke, and for Sir James 
Mackintosh he had conceived an unreasonable dis- 
like. These carelessnesses and prejudices are to 
be regretted, since they tended to abridge his 
knowledge and to impair his usefulness ; but they 
are probably to be referred to the circumstances 
in which he was placed, rather than to any de- 
fect in his mental constitution. A more liberal 
intercourse with mankind would have disabused 
him of many of those prepossessions, which he 
had hastily adopted, and had little temptation to 
abandon, and his better nature would have done 
the rest. 

In his personal tastes and feelings he was essen- 
tially and ardently Scottish. The language and 
literature of his native countrv he had studied with 



MEMOIR. 53 

care and success, and to her legendary poetry and 
metrical traditions he attached a high value. The 
land was also beautiful in his eyes, and no wander- 
ing minstrel of ancient, times could have been 
impressed with a loftier sense of the valor of the 
men or the virtue of the women who dwelt within 
its limits. That he was a devout admirer of exter- 
nal nature his poems amply testify. The vast soli- 
tude of the universe and the sublime depths of 
space filled his soul with a holy awe ; and whether he 
looked upon the heavens above with their countless 
myriads of stars, or upon the earth beneath with 
its garment of green, and its hills and valleys and 
running streams, his mind was equally impressed 
with the majesty and power of that great Being 
who made and sustains all things. 

God ! this is an holy hour : — 
Thy breath is o'er the land: 

1 feel it in each little flower 
Around me whei-e I stand; — 

In all the moonshine scattered fair, 
Above, below me, everywhere, — 
111 every dew-bead glistening sheen, 
In every leaf and blade of green, — 
And in'this silence, grand and deep, 
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep.* 

An elaborate analysis of Motherwell's character 
as a poet would not be compatible with the objects 
and limits of this slight sketch ; but it is fortunately 
rendered unnecessary by the criticism of Professor- 
Wilson, which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine 
for April, 1833. 

" All his perceptions are clear, for all his senses 
are sound. He has fine and strong sensibilities, 
and a powerful intellect. He has been led by the 
natural bent of his genius to the old haunts of 
inspiration, — the woods and glens of his native 

* Midnigrht and Moonshine. 



54 MEMOIR. 

country, — and his ears delight to drink the 
music of her old songs. Many a beautiful ballad 
has blended its pensive and plaintive pathos with 
his daydreams, and while reading some of his hap- 
piest effusions, we feel 

' The ancient spirit is not dead, — 
Old times, we say, are breathing there.' 

" His style is simple, but in his tenderest move- 
ments masculine ; he strikes a few bold knocks at 
the door of the heart, which is instantly opened by 
the master or mistress of the house, or by son or 
daughter, and the welcome visitor at once becomes 
one of the family." * 

This is generous praise, but not more generous 
than just, and it places the whole case before us 
by a few vivid strokes. It may be remarked, how- 
ever, that the field which he chose for the exercise 
of the higher efforts of his genius was unappropri- 
ated, by any name of marked celebrity, and that 
there was both originality and boldness in the 
thought, that he could win his way to fame through 
apparently so unpromising a channel as the Scan- 
dinavian mythology, and by the adaptation to mod- 
ern verse of the stern thoughts and sanguinary 
aspirations of the Northern Scalds. It is obvious 
that, in so daring an enterprise, anything short of 
entire success would have been fatal to the repu- 
tation of its author, and that, upon a theme at 
once so novel and so vast, mediocrity would not 
have been tolerated; and.it has always- appeared 
to me, that to have triumphed so completely over 
the latent prejudices of society, and to have ex- 
torted the reluctant praise of the critical world, 
was, in Motherwell's circumstances, the strongest 
proof he could give of the vigor and elasticity of 
his powers. Such men as Wordsworth, Southey, 

♦Blackwood's Magazine, vol. xxxiii. p. 670. 



MEMOIU. 55 

and Coleridge could afford some abatement from 
that full harvest of renown which they had accumu- 
lated ; but to a person in Motherwell's position the 
case was widely different, and the punishment of 
failure would have been proportioned in its sever- 
ity to the alleged presumption of the attempt. He 
did not fail, however, nor — as the result showed — 
was his confidence in himself overrated ; and his 
metrical imitations of the Sagas are not only dis- 
tinguished by an exact fidelity of tone and senti- 
ment, but are considered by competent judges to 
be fine heroic ballads, which display energetic 
powers of description, united to a high dramatic 
faculty. Had Gray followed out his original inten- 
tion, and given to the world that " History of 
Poetry," of which he had at one time meditated the 
composition, his successor would have had to en- 
counter a much more formidable competition than 
that which actually awaited him ; but he, as is well 
known, abandoned the design, and except The 
Fatal Sisters and The Descent of Odin, I cannot 
call to mind any other purely English poems con- 
structed upon a Northern basis. It may argue an 
undue partiality, but I prefer The Battle-Flag of 
Sigurd to either of Gray's odes.* 

* Had the intellect of Collins preserved its balance, the Norse 
legends would have afforded an inexhaustible supply of those ma- 
terials, in which his genius most delighted. " He loved fairies, 
genii, giants, and monsters ; he delighted to rove through the 
meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden 
palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens." — (John- 
son.) His ode on The Passions shows how familiar his mind 
■was with those terrible images in which we naturally, as it wefe, 
involve the harsher emotions of the soul; and it is probable, 
from the extent and variety of his attainments, and his allusion 
in the ode on the popular superstition of the Highlands of Scot- 
land, inscribed to Mr. Home, to those 

" Old Runic bards 

With vincouth lyres, in many-colored vest,'" 

that he was not unacquainted with the mj'thical treasures of the 
Sagas. There is nothing finer or more vigorous in the language 
than his description of Revenge : — 



56 MEMOIR. 

That the manners of the Valhalla and the ex- 
ploits of the Vikings had made a lasting impres- 
sion upon Motherwell's imagination, we have 
abundant proof in the first three poems of this 
volume ; and my own impression is, that in future 
times his fame will rest, in a great measure, on 
these splendid specimens of warlike invocation. 
As he comes nearer to ordinary life, his poetical 
individuality insensibly disappears, and the " un- 
couth lyre" of the " Runic- bard" is exchanged 
for the softer harp of the modern minstrel. The 
old Scottish ballad might be as succesfully imi- 
tated, perhaps, by men of far inferior capacity, 
and, excjuisite as some of his lyrical compositions 
are, they might likewise be approached, if not ex- 
celled ; but tor the conception and execution of 
The Battle-Flag of Sigurd, The Wooing Song 
of Jarl Egill Skallagrim, and The Sword Chant 
of Thorstein Raudi, a special inspiration and pe- 
culiar powers were required ; and I will venture 
to predict that they will survive the changes of 
time and the caprices of fashion. 

One of his most prominent defects as a lyrical 
poet is, in my opinion, the assumption — for it was 
no more — of a morbid tone of feeling respecting 
the world and its ways. Doubtless, 

" pictovibus atqne poetis 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit gequa potestas "; 

but there is a natural limit to even this proverbial 

",He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 

And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe. 

And ever and anon he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head." 



MEMOIR. 57 

license, and a perpetual dirge about broken vows, 
slighted love, and human selfishness is apt to en- 
gender the idea, that the man who thus indulges 
in habitual lamentation over his own misfortunes 
must have been less discriminating in his friend- 
ships, or less deserving of regard, than we could 
wish him to have been. But this was not the case 
with William Motherwell. Few men have en- 
joyed, and few men have more entirely merited, 
the strong and steady attachment of those with 
whom they associated ; and if life brought to him 
its share of sorrow and anxiety, it likewise af- 
forded many and solid compensations for his suffer- 
ings, of which I have not a doubt, he was fully 
sensible, and for which, I have as little doubt, he 
was truly thankful. I would not have noticed this 
peculiarity, had it not communicated to some of 
his effusions an air of harsh exaggeration, which 
was really foreign to his modest and uncomplain- 
ing nature, and did it not tend to create the belief, 
that my late friend, with all his gifts, was deficient 
in that humility of mind which should characterize 
a wise and a good man. This was not so; and 
when passages — I regret to say that they are too 
numerous — do occm* which might encourage this 
notion, let me hope that they will not be construed 
to his prejudice, but that they may be looked upon 
as mere poetical embellishments. 

For the occasional defects which may be dis- 
covered in the mechanical structure of his verse, 
no very satisfactory explanation can be offered. 
He had made poetry and its laws the business of 
his life ; yet imperfect lines and prosaic expressions 
do occur more frequently than could be desired, to 
mar the harmony of some of his best pieces, and, 
in certain cases, even to impair their sense. The 
only account that I can give of this infirmity is, 
that his ear wanted rhythmical accuracy, and that, 
from some peculiarity of his physical organization, 



58 MEMOIR. 

he was unable to appreciate the more dehcate 
modulations of sound. He was eminently un- 
musical ; not that he disliked music, far from it; 
but that his love of melody did not counterbalance 
his unacquaintance with the rules of harmony, of 
breaches of which he was often, though uninten- 
tionally, guilty. 

Upon the whole, his place as a minor poet is a 
distinguished one. He has undoubtedly enriched 
the language with many noble specimens of manly 
song ; and when it is remembered that he prosecut- 
ed his poetical studies in silence and retirement, 
animated alone by the love of his art, and sustain- 
ed through many long years of trial and of toil by 
the distant gleam of posthumous fame, it will not 
be disputed that his motives to action were exalt- 
>ed, and his exertions in the cause of human 
improvement disinterested. 

Ossa quieta, precor, tuta requiescite in urna ; 
Et sit humus cineri non onerosa tuo. 

J. M'C. 

Glasgow, December 23, 1846. 



POEMS 



POEMS. 



THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. 



The eagle hearts of all the North 

Have left their stormy strand ; 

The warriors of the world are forth 

To choose another land ! 

Again their long keels sheer the wave, 

Their broad sheets court the breeze ; 

Again the reckless and the brave 

Ride lords of weltering seas. 

Nor swifter from the well-bent bow 

Can feathered shaft be sped, 

Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow 

Their snorting galleys tread. 

Then lift the can to bearded lip. 

And smite each sounding shield, 

Wassaile ! to every dark-ribbed ship, 

To every battle-field ! 
So proudly the Scalds raise their voices of triumph. 
As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosomed bil- 
low. 

II. 

Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag 

Streams onward to the land, 

Well may the taint of slaughter lag 

On yonder glorious strand. 

The waters of the mighty deep, 

The wild birds of the sky, 



62 THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. 

Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep, 

Where moody men must die. 

The waves wax wroth beneath our keel, — 

The clouds above us lower, — 

They know the battle-sign, and feel 

All its resistless power ! 

Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag. 

Nor shuns an early tomb ? 

Who shoreward through the swelling surge 

Shall bear the scroll of doom V 
So shout the Scalds, as the long ships are nearing 
The low-lying shores of a beautiful land. 



Silent the Self-devoted stood 

Beside the massive tree ; 

His image mirrored in the flood 

Was terrible to see ! 

As leaning on his gleaming axe, 

And gazing on the wave. 

His fearless-soul was churning up 

The death-rune of the brave. 

Upheaving then his giant form 

Upon the brown bark's prow, 

And tossing back the yellow stomi 

Of hair from his broad brow ; 

The lips of song burst open, and 

The words of fire rushed out, 

And thundering through that martial crew 

Pealed Harald's battle-shout ; — 
It is Harald the Dauntless that lifteth his great 

voice. 
As the Northmen roll on with the doom-written 
banner. 

IV. 

" I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag 
Through sunshine or through gloom ; 
Through swelling surge on bloody strand 



THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGUI?D. 63 

I plant the scroll of doom ! 

On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, 

Beneath a starless sky, 

The Shadowy Three like meteors passed, 

And bade yomig Harald die ; — 

They sang the war-deeds of his sires, 

And pointed to their tomb ; 

Tiiey told him that this glory-flag 

Was his by right of doom. 

Since then, where hath young Harald been, 

But where Jarl's son should be ? 

'Mid war and waves, — the combat keen 

That raged on land or sea ! " 
So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory. 
As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden ban- 
ner. 

V. 

" Mine own death's in this clenched hand ; 

I know the noble trust ; 

These limbs must rot on yonder strand, 

These lips must lick, its dust ; 

But shall this dusky standard quail 

In the red slaughter-day ; 

Or shall this heart its purpose fail, — 

This arm forget to slay ? 

I trample down such idle doubt ; 

Haraki's high blood hath sprung 

From sires whose hands in martial bout 

Have ne'er belied their tongue ; 

Nor keener from their castled rock 

Rush eagles on their prey. 

Than, panting for the battle-shock. 

Young Harald leads the way," 
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty, 
Pours forth his big soul to the joyance of heroes. 



" The ship-borne warriors of the North, 
The sons of Woden's race. 



64 THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. 

To battle as to feast go forth, 
With stern and changeless face ; 
And I, the last of a great line. 
The Self-devoted, long 
To lift on high the Runic sign 
Which gives my name to song. 
In battle-field young Flarald falls 
Amid a slaughtered foe, 
But backward never bears his flag. 
While streams to ocean flow ; — 
On, on above the crowded dead 
This Runic scroll shall Hare, 
And round it shall the lightnings spread. 
From swords that never spare." 
So rush the hero-words from the death-doomed one, 
While Scalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers. 



" Flag ! from your folds, and fiercely wake 

War-music on the wind, 

Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake 

The sternness of my mind ; 

Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair, 

Pale watcher by the sea, 

I hear thy wailings on the air, 

Thy heart's dirge sung for me : — 

In vain thy milk-Avhite hands are wrung 

Above the salt sea foam ; 

The wave that bears me from thy bower 

Shall never bear me home ; 

Brynhilda ! seek another love, 

But ne'er wed one like me. 

Who death foredoomed from above 

Joys in his destiny." 
Thus mourned young Harald as he thought on 

Brynhilda, 
While his eyes filled with tears which glittered, but 
fell not. 



THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. 65 



" On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag, 

The scourge of far from shore ; 

It dashes through the seething foam, 

But I return no more ! 

Wedded unto a fatal bride, — 

Boune for a bloody bed, — 

And battling for her, side by side, 

Young Harald's doom is sped ! 

In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp 

Reel headlong to the grave, 

There Harald's axe shall ponderous ring, 

There Sigurd's flag shall wave ; — 

Yes, underneath this standard tall, 

Beside this fateful scroll, 

Down shall the tower-like prison fall 

Of Harald's haughty soul." 
So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and 

nearer 
The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the 
shore. 

IX. 

" Green lie those thickly timbered shores 
Fair sloping to the sea ; 
They're cumbered with the harvest stores 
That wave but for the free : 
Our sickle is the gleaming sword. 
Our garner the broad shield, — 
Let peasants sow, but still he's lord 
Who's master of the field ; 
Let them come on, the bastard-born. 
Each soil-stained churl ! — alack ! 
What gain they but a splitten skull, 
A sod for their base back ? 
They sow for us these goodly lands, 
We reap them in our might. 
Scorning all title but the brands 
That triumph in the fight ! " 



66 THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. 

It was thus the land- winners of old gained their 

glory, 
And gray stones voiced their praise in the bays of 

far isles. 

X. 

" The rivers of yon island low 

Glance redly in the sun, 

But ruddier still they're doomed to glow, 

And deeper shall they run ; 

The torrent of proud life shall swell 

Each river to the brim, 

And in that spate of blood, how well 

The headless corpse will swim 1 \ 

The smoke of many a shepherd's cot 

Curls from each peopled glen : 

And, hark ! the song of maidens mild, 

The shout of joyous men ! 

But one may hew the oaken tree. 

The other shape the shroud ; 

As the Landeyda o'er the sea 

Sweeps like a tempest cloud " : — 
So shouteth fierce Harald, — so echo the Northmen, 
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are 
careerino-. 



" Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread 
Abroad to the blue sky, 
And spectral visions of the dead 
Are trooping grimly by ; 
The spirit-heralds rush before 
Harald's destroying brand, 
They hover o'er yon fated shore 
And death-devoted band. 
Marshal stout Jarls your battle fast ! 
And fire each beacon height. 
Our galleys anchor in the sound. 
Our banners heave in sight ! 
And through the surge and arrowy shower 



SONG OF JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 67 

That rains on this broad shield, 
Harald uplifts the sign of power 
Which rules the battle-field ! " 

So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of 
slaughter, 

While the helniQts of heroes like anvils are ringing. 



On rolled the Northmen's war, above 

The Raven Standard flew, 

Nor tide nor tempest ever strove 

With vengeance half so true. 

'Tis Harald, — 'tis the Sire bereaved, — 

Who goads the dread career. 

And high amid the flashing storm 

The flag of doom doth rear. 

" On, on," the tall Death-seeker cries, 

" These earth-worms soil our heel. 

Their spear-points crash like crisping ice 

On ribs of stubborn steel ! " 

Hurra ! hurra ! their Avhirlwinds sweep, 

And Harald's fate is sped ; 

Bear on the flag, — he goes to sleep 

With the life-scorning dead. 
Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires, 
And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spii'it. 



THE WOOING SONG OF JARL EGILL 
SKALLAGRIM. 

Bright maiden of Orkney, 

Star of the blue sea ! 

I've swept o'er the waters 

To gaze upon thee ; 

I've left spoil and slaughter, 

I've left a far strand, 

To sing how I love thee, 



68 THE WOOING SONG OF 

To kiss thy small hand ! 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
Golden-haired maid ! 
The lord of yon brown bark, 
And lord of this blade, — 
The joy of the ocean, 
Of warfare and Avind, — 
Hath boune him to woo thee. 
And thou must be kind. 
So stoutly Jarl Egill wooed Torf Einar's daughter. 

In Jutland, in Iceland, 
On Neustria's shore, 
Where'er the dark billow 
My gallant bark bore. 
Songs spoke of thy beauty. 
Harps sounded thy praise. 
And my heart loved thee long ere 
It thrilled in thy gaze : 
Ay, daughter of Einar, 
Right tall mayst thou stand ; 
It is a Vikingir 
Who kisses thy hand ; 
It is a Vikingir 
That bends his proud knee. 
And swears by Great Freya 
His bride thou must be ! 
So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was fullest. 

Thy white arms are locked in 
Broad bracelets of gold ; 
Thy girdle-stead's gleaming 
With treasures untold ; 
The circlet that binds up 
Thy long, yellow hair, 
Is starred thick with jewels, 
That bright are and rare ; 
But gifts yet more princely 
Jarl E^ill bestows : 



JARL EGILL 8KALLAGRIM. 69 

For girdle, his great arm 
Around thee he throws ; 
The bark of a sea-king, 
For palace, gives he, 
While mad waves and winds shall 
Thy true subjects be. 
So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride. 

Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus, 
Nor toss so thy head, 
'Tis a Vikingir asks thee, 
Land-maiden, to wed ! 
He skills not to woo thee. 
In trembling and fear. 
Though lords of the land may 
Thus troop with the deer. 
The cradle he rocked in 
So sound and so long. 
Hath framed him a heart 
And a hand that are strong : 
He comes then as Jarl should, 
Sword belted to side. 
To win thee and wear thee 
With glory and pride. 
So sternly Jarl Egill wooed, and smote his long 
brand. 

Thy father, thy brethren, 
Thy kin, keep from me 
The maiden I've sworn shall 
Be Queen of the sea ! 
A truce with that folly, — 
Yon sea-strand can show 
If this eye missed its aim. 
Or this arm failed its blow : 
I had not well taken 
Three strides on this land, 
Ere a Jarl and his six sons 
In death bit the sand. 



70 THE WOOING SONG OF 

Nay, weep not, pale maid, though 
In battle should fall 
The kemps who would keep thy 
Bridegroom from the hall. 
So carped Jarl Egill, and kissed the bright weeper. 

Through shadows and horrors. 
In worlds underground, 
Through sounds that appall 
And through sights that confound, 
I sought the Weird women 
Within their dark cell, 
And made them surrender 
Futurity's spell ; 
I made them rune over 
The dim scroll so free. 
And mutter how fate sped 
With lovers like me ; 
Yes, maiden, I forced them 
To read forth my doom, 
To say how I should fare 
As jolly bridegroom. 
So Jarl Egill's love dared the world of grim 
. shadows. 

They waxed and they waned, 
They passed to and fro. 
While lurid fires gleamed o'er 
Their faces of snow ; 
Their stony eyes, moveless, 
Did glare on me long, 
Then sullen they chanted : 
" The Sword and the Song 
Prevail with the gentle. 
Sore chasten the rude. 
And sway to their purpose 
Each evil-shaped mood ! " 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
I've sung the dark lay 



JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 71 

That the Weird sisters runed, and 
Which thou must obey. 
So fondly Jarl Egill loved Einar's proud daughter. 

The ourl of that proud lip, 
The flash of that eye, 
The swell of that bosom, 
So full and so high, 
Like foam of sea-billow. 
Thy white bosom shows, 
Like flash of red levin 
Thine eagle eye glows : 
Ha! firnily and boldly, 
So stately and free, 
Thy foot treads this chamber, 
As bark rides the sea : 
This likes me, — this hkes me, 
Stout maiden of mould. 
Thou wooest to purpose ; 
Bold hearts love the bold, [maiden. 
So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the proud 

Away and away then, 
I have thy small hand ; 
Joy with me, — our tall bark 
Now bears toward the strand ; 
I call it the Raven, 
The wing of black night, 
That shadows forth ruin 
O'er islands of light : 
Once more on its long deck. 
Behind us the gale, 
Thou shalt see how before it 
Great kingdoms do quail : 
Thou shalt see then how truly. 
My noble-souled maid, 
The ransom of kings can 
Be won by this blade. 
So bravely Jarl Egill did soothe the pale trembler. 



72 THE SWORD CHANT OF 

Ay, gaze on its large hilt, 
One wedge of red gold ; 
But dote on its blade, gilt 
With blood pf the bold. 
The hilt is right seemly, 
But nobler the blade, 
That swart Velint's hammer 
With cunning spells made ; 
I call it the Adder, 
Death lurks in its bite, 
Through bone and proof-harness 
It scatters pale light. 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
Deem high of the fate 
That makes thee, like this blade. 
Proud EgilPs loved mate ! 
So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter 



THE SWORD CHANT OF THOBSTEIN 
RAUDI. 

'Tis not the gray hawk's flight 

O'er mountain and mere ; 
'Tis not the fleet hound's course 

Tracking the deer ; » 

'Tis not the light hoof print 

Of black steed or gray. 
Though sweltering it gallop 

A long summer's day ; 
Which mete forth the Lordships 

I challenge as mine ; 
Ha ! ha ! 'tis the good brand 
I clutch in my strong hand. 
That can their broad marches 

Arid numbers define. 
Land Giver ! I kiss thee. 



THORSTEIN KAUDI. 73 

Dull builders of houses, 

Base tillers of earth, 
Gaping, ask me Avhat lordships 

I owned at my birth ; 
But the pale fools wax mute 

When I point with my sword 
East, west, north, and south. 

Shouting, " There am I Lord ! " 
Wold and waste, town and tower, 

Hill, valley, and stream. 
Trembling, bow to my sway 
In the fierce battle-fray. 
When the star that rules Fate is 

This falchion's red gleam. 
Mighty Giver ! I kiss thee. 

I've heard gi-eat harps sounding, 

In brave bower and hall, 
I've drank the sweet music 

That bright lips let fall, 
I've hunted in greenwood, 

And heard small birds sing ; 
But away A\ith this idle 

And cold jargoning ; 
The music I love is 

The shout of the brave. 
The }'ell of the dying, 
The scream of the flying. 
When this arm wields death's sickle. 

And garner's the grave. 
Joy Giver ! I kiss'thee. 

Far isles of the ocean 

Thy lightning have known, 
And wide o'er the mainland 

Thy horrors have shone. 
Great sword of my father. 

Stern joy of his hand, 
Thou hast carved his name deep on 



74 SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 

The stranger's red strand, 
And won him the glory 

Of undying song. 
Keen cleaver of gay crests, 
Sharp piercer of broad breasts, 
Grim slayer of heroes, 

And scourge of the strong. 
Fame Giver ! I kiss thee. 

In a love more abiding 

Than that the heart knows 
For maiden more lovely 

Than summer's first rose, 
My heart's knit to thine, 

And lives but for thee ; 
In dreamings of gladness, 

ThouVt dancing with me 
Brave measures of madness 

In some battle-field, 
Where armor is ringing. 
And noble blood springing, 
And cloven, yawn helmet. 

Stout hauberk, and shiekl. 
Death Giver ! I kiss thee. 

The smile of a maiden's eye 

Soon may depart ; 
And light is the faith of 

Fair woman's heart ; 
Changeful as light clouds. 

And wayward as wind, 
Be the passions that govern 

Weak Avoman's mind. 
But thy metal's, as true 

As its polish is bright ; 
When ills wax in number. 
Thy love will not slumber. 
But, starlike, burns fiercer. 

The darker the night. 
Heart Gladdexer ! I kiss thee. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 75 

My kindred have perished 

By war or by wave, — 
Now, childless and sireless, 

I long for the grave. 
When the path of our glory 

Is shadowed in death, 
With me thou wilt slumber 

Below the brown heath ; 
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, 

And with it decay, — 
While harps shall be ringing, 
And Scalds shall be singing 
The deeds we have done in 

Our old fearless day. 
Song Giver ! I kiss thee. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They Wind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Tvyas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
'Twas then we twa did part ; 



76 JEANIE MORRISON. 

Sweet time, — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
To leir ilk ither lear ; 

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
Remembered evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in theo. 

O, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said. 

We cleeked thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran off to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

My head rins round and round about. 

My heart flows like a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
O mornin' life ! O morn in' luve ! 

O Hchtsome days and lang. 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon V 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 77 

The flowers burst round our feet, 
And in the gloamin o' the wood 
The throssil whussllt sweet ; 

The throssil whussht in the wood. 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we with Nature's heart in tune, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn. 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baitli 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time. 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled, — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest tliochts, 

As ye hae been to me ? 
O, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins. 

The luve o' life's young day. 



78 MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I die. 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 



MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 

My heid is like to rend, Willie, 

My heart is like to break, — 
I'm Avearin' aif my feet, Willie, 

I'm dyin' for your sake ! 
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 

Your hand on my briest-bane, — 
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie, 

When I am deid and gane ! 

It's vain to comfort me, Willie, 

Sair grief maun ha'e its will, — 
But let me rest upon your briest, 

To sab and greet my fill. 
Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 

Let me shed by your hair. 
And look into the face, Willie, 

I never sail see mair ! 

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 
For the last time in my life, — 

A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 
A mither, yet nae wife. 

Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 
And press it mair and mair, — 



MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 79 

Or It will burst tlie silken twine, 
Sae Strang is its despair. 

O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met, — 
O, wae's me for the time, Willie, 

That our tirst tryst was set ! 
O, wae's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae, — 
And wae's me for the destinie 

That gart me luve thee sae ! 

O, dinna mind my words, Willie, 

I down a seek to blame, — 
But O, it's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, 

And hailin' ower your chin ; 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness. 

For sorrow, and for sin ? 

I'm weary 'o this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' I see, — 
I canna live as I ha'e lived. 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine, — 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, 

Ye said was red langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, 

A sair stoun' through my heart, — 
O, hand me up and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! — 

How fast my life-strings break ! — 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk-yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 



80 THE madman's love. 

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid, 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
And this green turf we're sittin' on, 

Wi dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 
Will hap the heart that luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 

But O, remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be, — 
And O, think on the leal, leal heart, 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools, 

That file my yellow hair, — 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 



THE MADMAN'S LOVE. 

Ho ! Flesh and Blood ! sweet Flesh and Blood 

As ever strode on earth ! 
Welcome to Water and to Wood, — 

To all a Madman's mirth. 
This tree is mine, this leafless tree 

That's writhen o'er the linn ; 
The stream is mine, that fitfully 

Pours forth its sullen din. 
Their lord am I ; and still my dream 
Is of this Tree, — is of that Stream. 

The Tree, the Stream,— a deadly Twain ! 

They will not live apart ; 
The one rolls thundering through my brain. 

The other smites my heart : 



THE madman's love. 81 

Ay, this same leafless, fire-scathed tree, 

That groweth by the rock, 
Shakes its old, sapless arms at me, 

And would my madness mock ! 
The slaves are saucy, — well they know 
Good service did they long ago. 

I've lived two lives : The first is past 

Some hundred years or more ; 
But still the present is o'ercast 

With visionings of yore. 
This tree, this rock, that's cushioned sweet 

With tufts of savory thyme. 
That unseen river, which doth greet 

Our ears with its rude rhyme. 
Were then as now, — they form the chain 
That links the present with past pain. 

Sweet Flesh and Blood ! how deadly chill 

These milk-white fingers be ! 
The feathery ribs of ice-bound rill 

Seem not so cold to me ; — 
But press them on this burning brow 

Which glows like molten brass, 
'Twill thaw them soon ; then thou shalt know 

How ancient visions pass 
Before mine eyes, like shapes of life, 
Kindling old loves and deadly strife. 

Drink to me first ! — nay, do not scorn 

These sparkling dews of night ; 
I pledge thee in the silver horn 

Of yonder moonlet bright ; 
'Tis stinted measure now, but soon 

Thy cup shall overflow ; 
It half was spilled two hours agone, 

That little flowers might grow. 
And weave for me fine robes of silk ; 
For which good deed, stars drop them milk. 
6 



82 THE madman's love. 

Nay, take the horn into thy hand, 

The goodly silver horn. 
And quaff it off. At my command 

Each flower-cup, ere the morn. 
Shall brimful be of glittering dews. 

And then we'll have large store 
Of heaven's own vintage ripe for use, 

To pledge our healths thrice o'er ; 
So skink the can as maiden free. 
Then troll the merry bowl to me ! 

Hush ! — drink no more ! for now the trees, 

In yonder grand old wood. 
Burst forth in sinless melodies, 

To cheer my solitude ; 
Trees sing thus every night to me. 

So mournfully and slow, — 
They think, dear hearts, 'twere well for me, 

Could large tears once forth flow 
From this hard frozen eye of mine. 
As freely as they stream from thine. 

Ay, ay, they sing right passing well, 

And pleasantly in tune. 
To midnight winds a canticle 

That floats up to the moon ; 
And she goes wandering near and far 

Through yonder vaulted skies, 
No nook whereof but hath a star 

Shed for me from her eyes ; — 
She knows I cannot weep, but she 
Weeps worlds of light for love of me ! 

Yes, in her bower of clouds she weeps 

Night after night for me, — 
The lonely man that sadly keeps 

Watch by the blasted tree. 
She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams, 

To scare the cutting cold ; 



THE MADMAX'S LOVE. 83 

She lends me light to read my dreams, 

And rightly to unfold 
The mysteries that make men mad, 
Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad. 

So lovingly she shines through me. 

Without me and within. 
That even thou, methinks, might'st see, 

Beneath this flesh so thin, 
A heart that hke a ball of fire 

Is ever blazing there, 
Yet dieth not ; for still the lyre 

Of heaven soothes its despair, — 
The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet. 
When winds and woods and waters meet. 

Hush ! hush ! so sang yon ghastly wood, 

So moaned the sullen stream, 
One night, as two on this rock stood 

Beneath this same moonbeam : — 
Nay, start not ! — one was Flesh and Blood, 

A dainty, straight-limbed dame. 
That clung to me, and sobbed, — O God ! 

Struggling with maiden shame. 
She faltered forth her love, and swore, — 
" On land or sea, thine evermore 1 " 

By Wood, by Water, and by Wind, 

Yea, by the blessed light 
Of the brave moon, that maiden kind 

Eternal faith did plight ; 
Yea, by the rock on which we stood, — 

This altar-stone of yore, — 
That loved one said, " On land or flood. 

Thine, thine for evermore ! " 
The earth reeled round, I gasped for breath, 
I loved, and was beloved till death ! 

I felt upon my brow a kiss, 
Upon my cheek a tear ; 



84 THE madman's love. 

I felt that now life's sum of bliss 
Was more than heart could bear. 

Life's sum of bliss ? say rather pain, 
For heart to find its mate, 

To love, and be beloved again. 
Even when the hand of Fate 

Motions farewell! — and one must be 

A wanderer on the faithless sea. 

Ay, Land or Sea ! for, mark me now, 

Next morrow o'er the foam, 
Sword girt to side, and helm on brow, 

I left a sorrowing home ; 
Yet still I lived as very part 

Even of this sainted rock. 
Where first that loved one's tristful heart 

Its secret treasure broke 
In my love-thirsting ear alone. 
Here, here, on this huge altar-stone. 

Hear'st thou the busy sounds that come 

From yonder glittering shore : 
The madness of the doubling drum, 

The naker's sullen roar, — 
The wild and shrilly strains that swell 

From each bright, brassy horn, — 
The fluttering of each penoncel 

By knightly lance upborne, — 
The clear ring of each tempered shield, 
And proud steeds neighing far afield ? 

Sweet Flesh and Blood ! my tale's not told, 

'Tis scantly well begun : — 
Our vows were passed, in heaven enrolled, 

And then next morrow's sun 
Saw banners waving in the wind. 

And tall barks on the sea : 
Glory before, and Love behind. 

Marshalled proud chivalrie. 



THE madman's love, 85 

As every valor-freighted ship 
Its gilt prow in the wave did dip. 

And then passed o'er a merry time, — 

A roistering, gamesome life, 
Till cheeks were tanned with many a clime, 

Brows scarred in many a strife. 
But what of that ? Year after year, 

In every battle's shock, 
Or 'mid the storms of ocean drear, 

My heart clung to this rock ; 
Was with its very being blent, 
Suckino; from it brave nourislunent. 

All life, all feeling, every thought. 

Was centred in this spot ; 
The unforgetting being wrought 

Upon the Untbi'got. 
Time fleeted on ; but time ne'er dimmed 

The picturings of the heart, — 
Freshly as when they first were limned. 

Truth's fadeless tints would start ; 
Yes ! wheresoe'er Life's bark might steer. 
This changeless heart was anchored here. 

Ha ! laugh, sweet Flesh and Blood, outright, 

Nor smother honest glee. 
Your time is now ; but ere this night 

Hath travelled over me. 
My time shall come ; and then, ay, then 

The wanton stars shall reel 
Like drunkards all, when we madmen 

Upraise our laughter peal. 
I see the cause : the Twain, — the One, — 
The Shape that gibbered in the sun ! 

You pinch my wrist, you press my knee, 

With fingers long and small ; 
Light fetters these, — not so on me 

Did heathen shackles fall, 



THE MADMAN S LOVE, 

When I was captived in the fight 

On Candy's fatal shore ; 
And paynims won a battered knight, 

A living well of gore ; — 
How the knaves smote me to the ground, 
And hewed me like a tree all round ! 

They hammered irons on my hand, 

And irons on my knee ; 
They bound me fast, with many a band, 

To pillar and to tree ; 
They flung me in a loathsome pit, 

Where loathly things were rife, — 
Where newt and toad and rat would sit. 

Debating for my life, 
On my breast-bone ; while one and all 
Hissed, fought, and voided on their thrall. 

Yet lived I on, and, madman-like. 

With unchanged heart I lay ; 
No venom to its core could strike, 

For it was far away : — 
'Twas even here beside tliis Tree, 

Its Trysting-place of yore. 
Where that fond maiden swore to me, 

" Thine, thine, for evermore." 
Faith in her vow made that pit seem 
The palace of Arabian dream. 

And so was passed a weary time. 

How long I cannot tell, 
'Twas years ere in that sunny clime 

A sunbeam on me fell. 
But from that tomb I rushed in tears. 

The fetters fell from me. 
They rusted through with damp and years, 

And rotted was the tree. 
When the Undying crawled from night, — 
From loathsomeness, into God's light. 



THE madman's love. 87 

Lord ! there was a flood of sound 
Came rushing through my ears, 

When I arose from underground, 

A wild thing shedding tears : — 
The voices of glad birds and brooks, 

And eke of greenwood tree, 
With all the long-remembered looks 

Of earth, and sky, and sea. 
Danced madly through my 'wildered brain, 
And shook me like a wind-swung chain. 

Men marvelled at the ghastly form 

That sat before the sun, — 
That laughed to scorn the pelting storm, 

Nor would the thunders shun ; 
The bearded Shape, that gibbered sounds 

Of uncouth lore and lands. 
Struck aAve into tliese heathen hounds, 

Who, lifting up their hands. 
Blessed the wild prophet, and then brought 
Raiment and food unthanked, unsought. 

1 have a dreaming of the sea, — 

A dreaming of the land, — 
A dreaming that again to me 

Belonged a good knight's brand, — 
A dreaming that this brow was pressed 

With plumed helm once more, 
That linked mail reclad this breast 

When I retrod the shore, 
The blessed shores of my fatherland, 
And knelt in prayer upon its strand. 

" Years furrow brows and channel cheeks, 
But should not chase old loves away ; 

The language which true heart first speaks. 
That language must it hold for aye." 

This poesie a war-worn man 

Did mutter to himself one night. 



THE MADMAN S LOVE. 

As upwards to this cliff he ran, 

That shone in the moonhght ; • 
And by the moonhght cunously 
He scanned the bark of this old tree, 

" No change is here, all things I'emain 

As they were years ago ; 
With selfsame voice the old woods playne, 

When shrilly winds do blow, — 
Still murmuring to itself, the stream 

Rolls o'er its rocky bed, — 
Still smiling in its quiet dream, 

The small flower nods its head ; 
And I stand here," the War-worn said, 
" Like Nature's heart unaltered." 

Now, Flesh and Blood, that sits by me 

On tliis bare ledge of stone, 
So sat that Childe of chivalrie, 

One summer eve alone. 
I saw him, and methought he seemed 

Like to the bearded Form 
That sat before the sun, and gleamed 

Defiance to the storm ; 
I saw liim in his war- weed sit, 
And other Two before him flit. 

Yes, in the shadow of that tree, 

And motionless as stone. 
Sat the War-worn, while mirthfully 

The other Two passed on ; — 
By heaven ! one was a comely bride, 

Her face gleamed in the moon, 
As richly as in full-fleshed pride 

Bright roses burst in June ; 
Methought she was the maiden mild. 
That whilom loved the wandering Childe ! 

But it was not her former love 
That wandered with her there, — 



THE madman's love. 89 

O, no ! long absence well may move 

A maiden to despair ; 
Old loves we cast unto the winds, 

Old vows into the sea, 
'Tis lightsome for all gentle minds 

To be as fancy free. 
So the Vow-pledged One loved another, 
And wantoned witli a younger brother. 

I heard a dull, hoarse chuckle sound, 

Beside that trysting-tree ; 
I saw, uprising from the ground, 

A ghastly shape like me. 
But no ! — it was the War-worn wight, 

That, pale as whited wall, , 

Strode forth into the moonshine bright, 

And let the hoarse sounds fall. 
A voice uprushing from the tomb 
Than his were less fulfilled with doom. 

"Judgment ne'er sleeps !" the War-worn said, 

As, striding into light, 
He stood before that shuddering maid. 

Between her and that knight. 
Judgment ne'er sleeps ! 'tis wondrous odd, 

One gurgle, one long sigh, 
Ended it all ! Upon this sod 

Lay one with unclosed eye, 
And then the boiling linn that night. 
Flung on its banks a lady bright. 

She tripped towards me as you have tripped, 

Pale maiden ! and as cold; 
She sipped with me, as you have sipped, 

Night dews, and then I told 
To her, as you, my weary tale 

Of double life and pain ; 
And thawed her fingers chill and pale 

Upon my burning brain ; — 



90 THE madman's love. 

That daintiest piece of Flesh on earth, 
I welcomed to all my mirth. 

And then I pressed her icy hand 

Within my burning palm, 
And told her tales of that far land 

Of sunshine, flowers, and balm ; 
I told her of the damp, dark hole, 

The fetters, and the tree, 
And of the slimy things that stole 

O'er shuddering flesh so free : 
Yea, of the Bearded Ghasthness 
That sat in the sun's loveliness. 

■ I welcomed her, I welcome thee, 

To sit upon this stone, 
And meditate all night with me, 

On ages that are gone ; 
To dream again each marvellous dream 

Of passion and of truth, 
And reconstruct each shattered beam 

That glorified glad youth. 
These were the days ! — hearts then could feel, 
Eyes weep, and slumbers o'er them steal. 

But not so now. The second life 

That wearied hearts must live, 
Is woven with that thread of strife, — 

Forget not, nor Forgive ! 
Fires, scorching fires, run through our veins, 

Our corded sinews crack. 
And molten lead boils in our brains, 

For marrow to the back. 
Ha ! ha ! What's Life ? Think of the joke, 
The fiercest fire still ends in smoke ! 

Fill up the cup ! fill up the can ! 

Drink, drink, sweet Flesh and Blood, 
The health of the grim, bearded man 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 91 

That haunteth solitude ; — 
The wood pours forth its melodies, 

And stars whirl fast around ; 
Yon moon-ship scuds before the breeze, — 

Hark, how sky-billows sound I 
Drink, Flesh and Blood ! then trip with me 
One measure round the Madman's Tree ! 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 

There is blood on that brow. 
There is blood on that hand ; 

There is blood on that hauberk, 
And blood on that brand. 

O, bloody all o'er is 
His war-cloak, I weet ; 

He is wrapped in the cover 
Of murder's red sheet ! 

There is pity in man, — 

Is there any in him ? 
No ! ruth were a strange guest 

To Halbert the Grim. 

The hardest may soften. 

The fiercest repent ; 
But the heart of Grim Halbert 

May never relent. 

Death-doing on earth is 

Forever his cry ; 
And pillage and plunder 

His hope in the sky ! 



92 HALBEllT THE GRIM. • 

'Tis midnight, deep midnight, 
•And dark is the heaven ; 

Sir Halbert, in mockery, 
Wends to be shriven. 

He kneels not to stone, 

And he bends not to wood ; 

But he swung round his brown blade, 
And hewed down the Rood ! 

He stuck his long sword, with 

Its point in the earth ; 
And he prayed to its cross-hilt, 

In mockery and mirth. 

Thus lowly he louteth. 
And mumbles his beads ;^ 

Then hghtly he riseth, 
And homeward he speeds. 

His steed hurries homewards, 

Darkling and dim ; 
Right fearful it prances 

With Halbert the Grim. 

Still fiercer it tramples. 

The spur gores its side ; 
Now downward and downward 

Grim Halbert doth ride. 

The brown wood is threaded. 
The gray flood is passed. 

Yet hoarser and wilder 
Moans ever the blast. 

No star lends its taper, 
No moon sheds her glow ; 

For dark is the dull path 
That Baron must go. 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 93 

Though starless the sky, and 

No moon shines abroad, 
Yet, flashing with fire, all 

At once gleams the road. 

And his black steed, I trow, 

As it galloped on. 
With a hot sulphur halo 

And flame-flash all shone. 

From eye and from nostril 

Out gushed the pale flame. 
And from its chafed mouth the 

Churned fire-froth came. 

They are two ! they are two ! — 
They are coal-black as night, 

That now stanchly follow 
That grim Baron's flight. 

In each lull of the wild blast 

Out breaks their deep yell ; 
'Tis the slot of the doomed one, 

These hounds track so well. 

Ho ! downward, still downward. 

Sheer slopeth his way : 
No let hath his progress, 

No gate bids him stay. 

No noise had his horse-hoof 

As onward it sped ; 
But silent it fell, as 

The foot of the dead. 

Now redder and redder 

Flares far its bright eye. 
And harsher these dark hounds 

Yell out their fierce cry. 



94 TiiuE love's dirge. 

Sheer downward ! right downward 
Then dashed hfe and hmb, 

As careering to hell, 

Sunk Ilalbert the Grim ! 



TRUE LOVE'S DIRGE. 

Some love is light, and fleets away, 
Heiglio ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Some love is deejD, and scorns decay, 
Ah, well-a-day! in vain. 

Of loyal love I sing this lay, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

'Tis of a knight and lady gay, 
Ah, well-a-day ! bright twain. 

He loved her, — heart loved ne'er so well, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

She was a cold and proud damsel, 
Ah, well-a-day ! and vain. 

He loved her, — O, he loved her long ! 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But she for love oave bitter wronfj 



Ah, well-a-day ! Disdain 



6' 



It is not meet for knight like me, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Though scorned, love's recreant to be, 
Ah, well-a-day ! Refrain. 

That brave knight buckled to his brand, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

And fast he sought a foreign strand, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 



TRUE love's dirge. 95 

He wandered wide by land and sea, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
A mirror of bright constancye, 

Ah, well-a-day ! in vain. 

He would not chide, he would not blame, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But at each sliiine he breathed her name, 

Ah, well-a-day ! Amen ! 

He would not carpe, he would not sing, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But broke his heart with love-longing. 

Ah, well-a-day ! poor brain. 

He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But like a true knight he could die, — 

Ah, well-a-day ! life's vain. 

The banner which that brave knight bore, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Had scrolled on it **iFait|) 2Sbermore. '♦ 

Ah, well-a-day ! again. 

That banner led the Christian van, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Against Seljuck and Turcoman, 

Ah, weU-a-day ! bright train. 

The fight was o'er, the day was done, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But lacking was tliat loyal one, — 

Ah, well-a-day ! sad pain. 

They found him on the battle-field, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
With broken sword and cloven shield. 

Ah, weU-a-day ! in twain. 



96 TRUE love's dirge. 

They found him pillowed on the dead, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

The blood-soaked sod his bridal bed, 
Ah, well-a-day ! the Slain. 

On his pale brow, and paler cheek, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

The white moonshine did fall so meek, 
All, well-a-day ! sad strain. 

They lifted up the True and Brave, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

And bore him to his lone, cold grave. 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

They buried him on that far strand, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

His face turned towards his love's own land, 
Ah, well-a-day ! how vain. 

The wearied heart was laid at rest, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

To dream of her it liked best. 
Ah, well-a-day ! again. 

They nothing said, but many a tear, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain : 

Rained down on that knight's lowly bier, 
Ah, well-a-day ! amain. 

They nothing said, but many a sigh, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Told how they wished like him to die, 
Ah, well-a-day ! sans stain. 

With solemn mass and orison, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Tliey reared to him a cross of stone, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 



THE DEMON LADY. 97 

And on it graved with daggers bi-ight, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Jj^cce Ucs a true anH setitle Itm'flijt, 

Ah, well-a-day ! Amen ! 

jElcquiescat fa pace. 



THE DEMON LADY. 

Again in my chamber ! 

Again at my bed ! 
With thy smile sweet as sunshine, 

And hand cold as lead ! 
I know thee, I know thee ! — 

Nay, start not, my sweet ! 
These golden robes shrank up, 

And showed me thy feet ; 
These golden robes slirank up, 

And taffety thin, 
While out crept the symbols 

Of Death and of Sin ! 

Bright, beautiful devil ! 

Pass, pass from me now ! 
For the damp dew of death 

Gathers thick on my brow : 
And bind up thy girdle, 

Nor beauties disclose. 
More dazzlingly white 

Than the wreath-drifted snows : 
And away with thy kisses ; 

My heart waxes sick. 
As thy red lips, like worms. 

Travel over my cheek ! 

Ha ! press me no more with 
That passionless hand ! 

7 



98 THE DEMON LADY 

'Tis whiter than milk, or 

The foam on the strand ; 
'Tis softer than down, or 
■ The silken-leaved flower ; 
But colder than ice thrills 

Its touch at this hour. 
Like the finger of Death 

From cerements unrolled, 
Thy hand on my heart falls 

Dull, clammy, and cold. 

Nor bend o'er my pillow, — 

Thy raven-black hair 
O'ershadows my brow with 

A deeper despair ; 
These ringlets thick falling 

Spread fire through my brain, 
And my temples are throbbing 

With madness again. 
The moonlight ! the moonlight ! 

The deep- winding bay ! 
There are two on that strand, 

And a ship far away 1 

In its silence and beauty. 

Its passion and power. 
Love breathed o'er the land, 

Like the soul of a flower. 
The billows were chiming 

On pale yellow sands ; 
And moonshine was gleaming 

On small, ivory hands. 
There were bowers by the brook's brink. 

And flowers bursting free ; 
There were hot lips to suck forth 

A lost soul from me ! 

Now, mountain and meadow. 
Frith, forest, and river. 



99 



Are mingling witli shadows, — 

Are lost to m6 ever. 
The sunlight is fading, 

Small birds seek their nest ; 
While happy heai'ts, flower-like, 

Sink sinless to rest, 
But I ! — 'tis no matter ; — 

Ay, kiss cheek and chin ; 
Kiss, — kiss, — thou hast won me, 

Brijrht, beautiful Sin ! 



ZARA 

" A SILVERY veil of pure moonlight 
Is glancing o'er the quiet water. 
And O ! 'tis beautiful and bright 
As the soft smile of Selim's daughter. 

" Sleep, moonlight ! sleep upon the wave. 
And hush to rest each rising billow. 
Then dwell within the mountain cave, 
"Where this fond breast is Zara's pillow. 

" Shine on, thou blessed moon ! brighter still, 
O, shine thus ever night and morrow ! 
For daybreak mantling o'er the hill 
But wakes my love to fear and sorrow." 

'Twas thus the S])anish youth beguiled 
The rising fears of Selim's daughter ; 
And on their loves the pale moon smiled, 
Unweeting of the morrow's slaughter. 

Alas ! too early rose that morn, 
On harnessed knight and fierce soldada 
Alas ! too soon the Moorish horn 
And tambour rang in Old Grenada. 



100 



The dew yet bathes the dreaming flower, 
The mist yet lingers* in the valley, 
When Seiim and his Zcgris' power 
From port and postern sternly sally. 

Marry ! it was a gallant sight 

To see the plain with armor glancing. 

As on to Alpuxara's height 

Proud Selim's chivalry were prancing. 

The knights dismount ; on foot they climb 

The rugged steeps of Alpuxara ; 

In fateful and unhappy time 

Proud Selim found his long-lost Zara. 

They sleep, — in slee'p they smile and dream 
Of happy days they ne'er shall number ; 
Their lips breathe sounds, — their spirits seem 
To hold communion while they slumber. 

A moment gazed the stern old Moor, 
A scant tear in his eye did gather. 
For as he* gazed, she muttered o'er 
A blessing on her cruel father. 

The hand that grasped the crooked blade 
Relaxed its gripe, then clutched it stronger ; 
The tear that that dark e}e hath shed 
On the swart cheek is seen no longer. 

'Tis past ! — the bloody deed is done, 
A father's hand hath sealed the slaughter ! 
Yet in Grenada many a one 
Bewails the fate of Selim's daughter. 

And many a Moorish damsel hath 

Made pilgrimage to Alpuxara ; 

And breathed her vows where Selim's wrath 

O'ertook the Spanish youth and Zara. 



OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT 101 

OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 

A TURKISH BATTLE-SONG. 

TCHASSAN OUGLOU is on ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on! 
And with liim to battle 
The Faithful are gone. 

Allah, il allah ! 
The tambour is rung ; 
Into his war-saddle 
Each Spahi hath swung : — 
Now the blast of the desert 
Sweeps over the land, 
And the pale fires of heaven 
Gleam in each Damask brand. 

Allah, il allah ! 

Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
Abroad on the winds, all 
His Horse-tails are thrown. 
'Tis the rush of the eagle 
Down cleaving through air, — 
'Tis the bound of the lion 
When roused from his lair. 
Ha ! fiercer and wilder 
And madder by far, 
On thunders the might 
Of the Moslemite war. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Forth lash their wild horses, 
With loose-fiowing rein ; 
The steel grides their flank, 
Their hoof scarce dints the plain. 
Like the mad stars of heaven, 



102 OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 

Now the Delis rush out ; 
O'er the thunder of cannon 
Swells proudly their shout, — ■ 
And sheeted with foam, 
Like the sui'ge of the sea, 
Over wreck, death, and woe rolls 
Each fierce Osmanli. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Fast forward, still forward, 
• Man follows on man, 
While the Horse-tails are dashing 
Afar in the van ; — . 
See where yon pale crescent 
And green turban shine. 
There smite for the Prophet,' 
And Othman's oreat line ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
The fierce war-cry is given, — 
For the flesh of the Giaour . 
Shriek the vultures of heaven. 

Allah, il allah ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
How thick on the plain 
The infidels cluster. 
Like ripe, heavy grain ! 
The reaper is coming. 
The crooked sickle's bare, 
And the shout of the Faithful 
Is rending the air. 
Bismillahl Bismillah ! 
Each far-flashing brand 
Hath piled its red harvest 
Of death on the land ! 

Allah, il allah ! 

Mark, mark yon green turban 
That heaves through the fight, 



OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 103 

Like a tempest-tost bark 
'Mid the thunders of night ; 
See, parting before it, 
On right and on left, 
How the dark billows tumble, — 
Each saucy crest cleft ! 
Ay, horseman and footman 
Reel back in dismay. 
When the sword of stern Ouglou 
Is lifted to slay. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
O'er the Infidel breast 
Hath his fiery barb gone : 
The bullets rain on him, 
They fall thick as hail ; 
The lances crash round him 
Like reeds in the gale, — 
But onward, still onward, 
For God and his law. 
Through the dark strife of Death 
Bursts the gallant Pacha. 

Allah, il allah! 

. In the wake of his might. 
In the path of the wind, 
Pour the sons of the Faithful, 
- Careering behind ; 
And bending to battle 
O'er each high saddlebow, 
With the sword of Azrael, 
They sweep down the toe. 

Allah, il allah ! 
'Tis Ouglou that cries, — 
In the breath of his nostril 
The Infidel dies ! 

Allah, il allah ! 



104 ELFIJSLAND WUD. 



ELFINLAND WUD. 

AN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTTISH ROMANTIC BALLAD. 

Erl William has miintit his gude grai stede, 
(Merrle lemis munelicht on the sea,) 

And graithit him in ane cumli weid. 

(Swa bonnihe blumis the hawthorn-tree.) 

Erl William rade, Erl William ran, 
(Fast they ryde quha luve trewlie,) 

Quhyll the Elfinland wud that gude Erl wan— 
(Blink ower the burn, sweit may, to mee.) 

Elfinland wud is dern and dreir, 

(Merrie is the grai gowkis sang,) 
Bot ilk ane leafis quhyt as silver cleir, 

(Licht makis schoirt the road swa lang.) 

It is undirneth ane braid aik tree, 

(Hey and a lo, as the leavis grow grein,) 

Thair is kythit ane bricht ladie, 

(Manie flouris blume quhilk ar nocht seen.) 

Around hir slepis the quhyte muneschyne, 

(Meik is mayden undir kell,) 
Hir lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne ; 

(The rois of Houris hes sweitest smell.) 

It was al bricht quhare that ladie stude, 
(Far my luve, fure ower the sea.) 

Bot dern is the lave of Elfinland wud, 

(The knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me.) 



ELFINLAND WUD. 105 

The ladle's handls were quhyte als milk, 
(Ringis my luve wore mair nor ane.) 

Hir skin was safter nor the silk ; 

(Lilly brlcht schinis my luvis halse bane.) 

Save you, save you, fayr ladie. 

(Gentil hert schawls gentil deed.) 
Standand alane undir this auld tree ; 

(Deir till knicht is nobil steid.) 

Burdalane, if ye dwell here, 

(My hert is layed upon this land.) 

I wud like to live your fere ; 

(The schippis cum sailin to the strand.) 

Nevir ane word that ladie sayd ; 

(Schortest rede hes least to mend.) 
Bot on hir harp she evir played ; 

(Thare nevir was mirth that had nocht end.) 

Gang ye eist or fare ye wast, 

(Ilka stern blinkis blythe for thee,) 

Or tak ye the road that ye like best, 
(Al trew feeris ryde in cumpanie.) 

Erl William loutit doun full lowe ; 

(Luvis first seid bin courtesie.) 
And swung liir owir his saddil bow, 

(Ryde quha listis, ye'll link with mee.) 

Scho flang her harp on that auld tree, 
(The wynd pruvis aye ane harpir gude.) 

And it gave out its music free ; 

(Birdis sing blythe in gay green wud.) 

Tlie harp playde on its leeful lane, 

(Land is my luvis yellow hair.) 
Quhill it has charmit stock and stane, 

(Furth by firth, deir lady fare.) 



106 ELFINLAND WUD. 

Quban scho was muntit him behynd, 
(Blyth be hertis qubilkis kive ilk uther.) 

Awa thai flew lyke flaucht of wind ; 

(Kin kens kin, and bairnis thair mither.) 

Nevir ane word that ladie spak ; 

(Mini be maydens men besyde.) 
Bot that stout steid did nicher and schaik ; 

(Smal things humbil hertis of pryde.) 

About his breist scho plet her handis ; 

(Luvand be maydins quhan thai lyke.) 
Bot thay were cauld as yron bandis. 

(The winter bauld bindis sheuch and syke.) 

Your handis ar cauld, fayr ladie, sayd hee, 
(The caulder hand the trewer hairt.) 

I trembil als the lief on the tree ; 

(Licht caussis muve aid friendis to pairt.) 

Lap your mantil owir your heid, 

(My luve was clad in the reid scarlett,) 

And spredd your kirtil owir my stede ; 
(Thair nevir was joie that had nae lett.) 

The ladie scho wald nocht dispute ; 

(Nocht Avoman is scho that laikis ane tung.) 
But caulder hir fingeris about him cruiJi. 

(Sum sangis ar writt, bot nevir sung.) 

This Elfinland wud will neir haif end ; 

(Hunt quha listis, daylicht for mee,) 
I Avuld I culd ane Strang bow bend, 

(Al undirneth the grene wud tree.) 

Thai rade up, and they rade doun, 
(Wearilie wearis wan nicht away.) 

Erl William's heart mair cauld is grown ; 
(Hey, luve mine, quhan dawis the day?) 



ELFINLAND WUD. 107 

Your hand lies cauld on my briest-bane, 

(Smal hand hes my ladie fair,) 
My horss he can nocht stand his lane, 

(For cauldness of this midnicht air.) 

Erl William turnit his heid about ; 

(The braid mune schinis in lift rieht cleir.) 
Twa Elfin een are glentin owt, 

(My luvis een like twa sternis appere.) 

Twa brennand eyne, sua bricht and full, 

(Bonnilie blinkis my ladeis ee,) 
Flang fire flauchtis fra ane peelit skull ; 

(Sum sichts ar ugsomlyk to see.) 

Twa rawis of quhyt teeth then did say, 
(Cauld the boysteous Avindis sal blaw,) 

O, lang and weary is our way, 

(And donkir yet the dew maun fa'.) 

Far owir mure, and far owir fell, 

(Hark the sounding huntsmen thrang ; 

Thorow dingle, and thorow dell, 
(Luve, come, list the merlis sang.) 

Thorow fire, and thorow flude, 

(Mudy mindis rage lyk a sea ;) 
Thorow slauchtir, thorow blude, 

(A seamless shroAvd weird schaipis for me !) 

And to rede aricht my spell, 

Eerilie sal nicht wyndis moan, 
Quhill fleand Hevin and raikand Hell, 

Ghaist with frhaist maun waudir on. 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 

All earth below, all heaven above, 
In this calm hour, are filled with Love ; 
All sights, all sounds, have throbbing hearts, 
In which its blessed fountain starts, 
And gushes forth so fresh and free. 
Like a soul-thrilling melody. 

Look ! look ! the land is sheathed in light, 

And mark the winding stream. 
How, creeping round yon distant height, 

Its rippling waters gleam. 
Its waters flash through leaf and flower, — 

O, merrily they go ! 
Like living things, their voices pour 

Dim music as they flow. 
Sinless and pure they seek the sea, 
As souls pant for eternity ; — 
Heaven speed their bright course till they sleep 
In the broad bosom of the deep. 

High in mid-air, on seraph wing, 
The paley moon is journeying 
In stillest path of stainless blue ; 
Keen, curious stars are peering through 
Heaven's arch this hour ; they dote on her 
With perfect love ; nor can she stir 
Within her vaulted halls a pace. 
Ere, rushing out with joyous face. 

These Godkins of the sky 
Smile, as she glides in loveliness ; 

While every heart beats high 
With passion, and breaks forth to bless 

Her loftier divinity. 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 109 

It is a smile worth worlds to win, — 
So full of love, so void of sin, 
The smile she sheds on these tall trees, 
Stout children of past centuries. 
Each httle leaf with feathery light 

Is margined marvellously ; 
Moveless all droop in slumberous quiet ; 

How beautiful they be ! 
And blissful as soft infants lulled 

Upon a mother's knee. 

Far down yon dell the melody 

Of a small brook is audible ; 
The shadow of a thread-like tone, — 
It murmurs over root and stone, 

Yet sings of very love its fill ; — 
And hark ! even now, how sweetly shrill 

It trolls its fairy glee, 
Skywards unto that pure, bright one ! 

O, gentle heart hath she ! 
For leaning down to earth, with pleasure, 
She lists its fond and prattling measure. 

It is indeed a silent night 

Of peace, of joy, and purest light ; — 

No angry breeze, in surly tone, 

Chides the old forest till it moan ; * 

Or breaks the dreaming of the owl. 

That, Avarder-like, on yon gray tower, 
Feedeth his melancholy soul 

With visions of departed power ; 
And o'er the ruins Time hath sped, 
Nods sadly with his spectral head. 

And lo ! even like a giant wight 
Slumbering his battle toils away. 

The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright 
With many a dazzling ray. 

Lies stretched in vastness at my feet; 

Voiceless the chamber and the street, 



110 MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 

And eclioless the hall ; — 
Had Death uplift his bony hand 
And smote all living on the land, 

No deeper qniet coidd fall. 
In this religious c<ilm of night, 
Behold, with finger tall and bright, 
Each tapering spire points to the sky, 
In a fond, holy ecstasy ; — 
Strange monuments they be of mind, — 
Of feelings dim and undefined. 
Shaping themselves, yet not the less. 
In forms of passing loveliness. 

God ! this is a holy hour : — 
Thy breath is o'er the land ; 

1 feel it in each little flower 

Around me where I stand, — 
In all the moonshine scattered fair, 
Above, below me, everywhei-e, — 
In every dew-bead ghstening sheeny 
In every leaf and blade of green, — 
And in this silence, grand and deep. 
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep. 

The trees send forth their shadows long 

In gambols o'er the earth, 
To chase each other's innocence 

In quiet, holy mirth; 
O'er the glad meadows fast they throng, 

Shapes multiform and tall ; 
And lo ! for them the chaste moonbeam 

With broadest light doth fall. 
Mad phantoms all, they onward glide, — 
On swiftest wind they seem to ride 

O'er meadow, mount, and stream : 
And now, with soft and silent pace, 

They walk as in a dream, 
AVhile each bright earth-flower hides its face 
Of blushes, in their dim embrace. 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. Ill 

Men say, that in this midnight hour 
The disembodied have power 
To wander as it hketh them, 
By wizard oak and fairy stream, — 

Through still and solemn places, 
And by old walls and tombs to dream, 

With pale, cold, mournful faces. 
I fear them not ; for they must be 
Spirits of kindest sympathy. 
Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel 
The beauties of this calm night steal 
Like music o'er them, Avhile they wooed 

The luxury of Solitude. 

Welcome, ye gentle spirits ! then. 

Who love and feel for earth-chained men, — 

Who, in this hour, delight to dwell 

By moss-clad oak and dripping cell, — 

Who joy to haunt each age-dimmed spot, 

AVhich ruder natures have forgot ; 

And, in majestic solitude. 

Feel every pulse-stroke thrill of good 

To all around, below, above ; — 

Ye are the co-mates whom I love 1 

While, lingering in this moonshine glade, 

I dream of hopes that cannot fade; 

And pour abroad those fantasies 

That spring from holiest sympathies 

With Nature's moods in this glad hour 

Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power, 

When the busy stir of man is gone, 

And the soul is left with its God alone ! 



112 THE water! the water 



THE WATER! THE WATERS 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The joyous brook for me, 
That tuneth through the quiet night 

Its ever-living glee. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That sleepless, merry heart, 
Which gurgles on unstintedly, 

And loveth to impart 
To all around it some small measure 
Of its own most perfect pleasure. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The gentle stream for me, 
That gushes from the old gray stone, 

Beside the alder-tree. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That ever-bubbling spring 
I loved and looked on while a child, 

In deepest wondering, — 
And asked it whence it came and went, 
And when its treasures would be spent. 

The Water I the Water ! 

The merry, wanton brook, 
That bent itself to pleasure me. 

Like mine old shepherd crook. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That sang so sweet at noon. 
And sweeter still all night, to win 

Smiles from the pale, proud moon, 
And from the little fairy faces 
That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 

The Water ! the Water ! 
The dear and blessed thing, 



THE water! the WATER. 113 

That all day fed the little flowers 

On its banks blossoming. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That munnured in my ear 
Hymns of a saint-like purity, 

That angels well might hear; 
And whisper in the gates of heaven, 
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

Where I have shed salt tears, 
In loneliness and friendhness, 

A thing of tender years. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

Where I have happy been, 
And showered upon its bosom flowers 

Culled from each meadow green, 
And idly hoped my life would be 
So crowned by love's idolatry. 

The Water! the Water! 

My heart yet burns to think 
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, 

For parched hp to drink. 
The Water ! the AVater ! 

Of mine own native glen ; 
The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, 

But ne'er shall hear again ; 
Though fancy fills my ear for aye 
With sounds that live so far away ' 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The mild and glassy wave, 
Upon whose broomy banks I've longed 

To find my silent grave. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

O, blest to me thou art ! 
Thus sounding in life's sohtude, 

The music of my heart, 



114 THKEE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES. 

And filling it, despite of sadness, 
With dreamings of departed gladness. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The mournful, pensive tone, 
That whispered to my heart how soon 

This weary life was done. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That rolled so bright and free. 
And bade me mark how beautiful 

Was its soul's purity ; 
And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 
As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 



THREE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES. 

Were I a breath of viewless wind. 

As very spirits be. 
Where would I joy at length to find 

I was no longer free ? 
O, Margaret's cheek, 
Whose blushes speak 

Love's purest sympathies, 
Would be the site. 
Where, gleaming bright, 

My prison-dome should rise ; 
I'd live upon that rosy shore. 

And fan it with soft sighs, 
Nor other paradise explore 

Beneath the skies. 

Were I a pranksome Elfin knight, 

Or eke the Faerye king. 
Who, when the moonshine glimmers bright, 

Loves to be wanderino- ; 



A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. 115 

Where would I ride, 
In all the pride 

Of Elfin chivalry, 
With each sweet sound 
Far floating round, 

Of Faerye minstrelsy ? — 
'Tis o'er her neck of drifted snow, 

Her passion-breathing lip, 
Hei dainty chin and noble brow, 

That I would trip. • 

Were I a glossy-plumaged bird, 

A small glad voice of song, 
Where would my love-lays aye be heard, — 

Where would I nestle long ? — 
In Margaret's ear, 
When none were near, 

I'd strain my little throat. 
To sing fond lays 
In Margaret's praise, 

That could not be forgot ; 
Then on her bosom would I fall. 

And from it never part, — 
Dizzy with joy, and proud to call 

My home her heart ! 



A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. 

Sing high, sing Ioav, thou moody wind, 

It skills not, — for thy glee 
Is ever of a fellow-kind 

With" mine own fantasy. 
Go, sadly moan or madly blow 

In fetterless free-will, 
Wild spirit of the clouds ! but know 

I ride thy comrade still ; 



116 A CAVEAT TO THE WIND 

Loving thy humors, I can be 

Sad, wayward, Avild, or mad, like thee. 

Go, and with Hght and noiseless wing 

Fan yonder murmuring stream, — 
Brood o'er it, as the sainted thing, 

The spirit of its dream, — 
Give to its voice a sweeter tone 

Of calm and heartfelt gladness ; 
Or, to those old trees, woe-begone, 

Add moan of deeper sadness, — 
It likes me still ; for I can be 
All sympathy of heart, like thee. 

Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse 

The billows of the deep ; 
And, in the blustering storm, carouse 

With fiends that never weep. 
Go, tear each fluttering rag away, 

Outshriek the mariner. 
And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay 

Of death and shipwreck drear ; — 
What reck I, since I still dare be 
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless, like thee ? 

I love thy storm-shout on the land, 

Thy storm-shout on the sea ; 
Though shapes of death rise on each hand, 

Dismay troops not with me. 
With iron cheek, that never showed 

The channel of a tear. 
With haughty heart, that never bowed 

Beneath a dastard fear, 
I rush with thee o'er land and sea. 
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee. 

Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim, 

Where ghosts at midnight stray, 
To pour abroad unearthly hymn, 



WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? 117 

And fright the stars away ? 
Add to their sighs thy hollow tone 

Of" saddest melancholy, — 
For I, too, love such places lone, 

And court such guests unjoUy ; 
Such haunts, such mates, in sooth, to me 
Be welcome as they are to thee. 

Blow as thou wilt, blow anywhere, 

Wild spirit of the sky. 
It matters not, — earth, ocean, air, 

Still echoes to my cry, 
"I follow thee ; " for where thou art 

My spirit, too, must be. 
While each cord of this wayward heart 

Thrills to thy minstrelsy ; 
And he that feels so sure must be 
Meet co-mate for a shrew like thee ! 



WHAT IS GLORY? W^HAT IS FAME? 

What is Glory ? What is Fame ? 
The echo of a long-lost name ; 
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ; 
The shadow of an arrant naught ; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 

Dying next morrow ; 
A stream that hurries on its way, 

Singing of sorrow ; 
The last drop of a bootless shower, 
Shed on a sere and leafless bower ; 
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast, — 
This is the World's fame at the best ! 

What is Fame ? and what is Glory ? 
A dream, — a jester's lying story, 



118 THE SOLEMN SONG OF A 

To tickle fools withal, or be 

A tlieme for second infancy ; 

A joke scrawled on an epitaph; 

A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh ; 

A visioning that tempts the eye, 

But mocks the touch, — nonentity ; 

A rainbow, substanceless as bright, 

Flitting forever 
O'er hill-top to more distant height, 

Nearing us never ; 
A bubble blown by fond conceit. 
In very sooth itself to cheat ; 
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain ; 
A fortune that to lose were gain ; 
A word of praise, perchance of blame ; 
The wreck of a time-bandied name, — 
Ay, this is Glory ! — this is Fame ! 



THE SOLEMN SONG OF A EK^HTEOUS 
HEARTE. 

AFTER THE FASHION OF AN EARLY ENGLISH POETS. 

There is a mighty Noyse of Bells 
Rushing from the turret free ; 

A solemne tale of Truthe it tells. 
O'er Land and Sea, 

How heartes be breaking fast, and then 
Wax whole againe. 

Poor fluttering Soule ! why tremble soe, 
To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree ; 

Time wormes its core, and it must bowe 
To Fate's decree ; 

Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare, 
For Evermore. 



RIGHTEOUS HEARTE. 119 

Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth ; 

Far under shal its shadows flee, 
And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth 

Growe strange to thee. 
Thou wiU not mingle in its noyse, 

Nor court its Joies. 

Fond One ! why cling thus unto Life, 
As if its gaudes were meet for thee ; 

Surely its Follie, Bloodshed, Stryfe, 
Liked never thee ? 

This World growes madder each newe dale, 
Vice beares such sway. 

Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, 

And crawle upon the supple knee, — 

Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel, — 
This Worldes for Thee. 

Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother : 
Then seek another. 

Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe 

As flatter Guilt's prosperitye. 
And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
Sithence to this thou wilt not bend. 

Life's at an end. 

Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad, 

As if 'twere spotted Infamy, 
And prayse as Good what is most Bad, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
Sithence thou canst not will it soe, 

Poor Flutterer goe ! 

If Head Avith Hearte could so accord, 

In bond of perfyte Amitie, 
That Falshood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, 
Word,— 



120 THE SOLEMN SONG, ETC. 

This Worldes for Thee.^ 
But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one ! 
Thy race is run. 

Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved 
hearts weep, 

And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye, 
Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape, — 

This Worldes for Thee ; 
But with the Weeper thou must weepe, 

And sad watch keep. 

Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath 
wrung 

The withei's of the Poore but Prowde, 
And by the rootes pluck out the tongue 

That dare be lowde 
In Righteous cause, whate'er may be, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 

This canst thou not ! Then, fluttering thing, 

Unstained in thy puritye, 
Sweep towards heaven witli tireless wing, — 

Meet Home for Thee. 
Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree, — 

God's Love guides Thee. 

And thus it is : — these solemn bells, 

Swinging in the turret free, 
And tolling forth theire sad farewells, 

O'er Land and Sea, 
Telle how Hearts breake, full fast, and then 

Growe whole againe. 



MELAXCHOLYE. 121 



MELANCHOLYE. 

Adieu ! al vaine deliglites 
Of calm and moonshine nightes; 
Adieu ! al pleasant shade 
That forests thieke have made ; 
Adieu ! al musick swete 

That little fountaynes poure, 
When blythe theire waters greete 

The lovesick lyly-fiowre. 

Adieu ! the fragrant smel 

Of flowres in boskye dell ; 

And all the merrie notes 

That tril from smal birdes' throates ; 

Adieu ! the gladsome lighte 

Of Day, Morne, Noone, or E'en ; 
And welcome o-loomy Nio-hte, 

VVnen not one star is seene. 

Adieu ! the deafening noyse 
Of cities, and the joyes 
Of Fashioun's sicklie birth ; 
Adieu ! al boysterous mirthe, 
Al pageant, pompe, and state, 

And every flauntynge thing 
To which the would-be-great 

Of earth in madness cling. 

Come with me, Melancholye, 
We'll live like eremites holie, 
In some deepe uncouthe wild 
Where sunbeame never smylde : 
Come with me, pale of hue. 

To some Iqne silent spot, 
Where blossom never grewe. 

Which man hath quyte forgot. 



122 MELANCHOLYE. 

Come, with thy thought-filled eye, 
That notes no passer by, 
And drouping solemne heade, 
Where phansyes strange are bred, 
And saddening thoughts doe brood, 

Which idly strive to borrow 
A smyle to vaile thy moode 

Of heart-abyding sorrow. 

Come to yon blasted mound 
Of phantom-haunted ground, 
Where spirits love to be ; 
And liste the moody glee 
Of nighte-windes as they moane, 

And the ocean's sad replye 
To the wild unhallowed tone 

Of the wandering sea-bird's cry. 

There sit with me and keep 
Vigil when al doe sleepe ; 
And when the curfeu bell 
Hath rung its mournfull knel. 
Let us together blend 

Our mutual sighes and teares. 
Or chaunt some metre penned. 

Of the joies of other yeares. 

Or in cavern hoare and damp. 
Lit by the glow-worm's lampe, 
We'll muse on the dull theme 
Of Life's heart-sickening dreame, — 
Of Time's resistlesse powre, — 

Of Hope's deceitful lips, — 
Of Beauty's short-livde houre, — 

And Glory's dark eclipse ! 

Or, wouldst thou rather chuse 
This World's leaf to peruse, 
Beneath some dripping vault 



I AM NOT SAD. 123 



AVhose close-ribbed arches still 
Frown in their green old age, 

And stamp an awefull chill 
Upon that pregnant page ? 

Yes, thither let us turne. 
To this Time-shattered urne, 
And quaintly carved stone, — 
Dim wrackes of ages goAe ; 
Here, on this mouldering tomb. 

We'll con that noblest truth. 
The Flesh and Spirit's doome, — 

Dust and Immortall Youthe. 



. I AM NOT SAD. 

I AM not sad, though sadness seem 

At times to cloud my brow ; 
I cherished once a foolish dream, — 
Thank Heaven, 'tis not so now ! 
Truth's sunshine broke. 
And I awoke 
To feel 'twas right to bow 
To Fate's decree, and this my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I grieve not, though a tear may fill 

This glazed and vacant eye.; 
Old thoughts will rise, do what we will. 
But soon again they die ; 
An idle gush. 
And all is hush. 
The fount is soon run dry : 
And cheerly now I meet my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 



124 I AM NOT SAD. 

I am not mad, although I see 
Things of no Tjetter mould 
Than I myself am, greedily 
In Fame's bright page enrolled, 
That they may tell 
The story well, 
What shines may not be gold. 
No, no ! content I court my doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

The luck is theirs, — the loss is mine, 

And yet no loss at all ; 
The mighty ones of eldest time, 
I ask where they did fall ? 
Tell me the one 
Who e'er could shun 
Touch with Oblivion's pall ? 
All bear with me an equal doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

Brave temple and huge pyramid. 

Hill sepulchred by art, 
The barrow acre-vast where hid 
Moulders some Nimrod's heart ; 
Each monstrous birth 
Cumbers old earth. 
But acts a voiceless part^ 
Resolving all to mine own doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

Tradition with her palsied hand, 

And purblind History, may 
Grope and guess well that in this land 
Some great one lived his day ; 
And what is this, 
Blind hit or miss, 
But labor thrown away, 
For counterparts to mine own doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 



THE JOYS OF THE WILDERNESS. 125 

I do not peak and pine away, 
Lo ! this deep bowl I quaff; 
If sigh I do, you still must say 
It sounds more like a laugh. 
'Tis not too late 
To separate 
The good seed from the chaff; 
And scoff at those who scorn my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I spend no sigh, I shed no tear, 

Though life's first dream is gone ; 
And its bright picturings now appear 
Cold images of stone ; 
I've learned to see 
The vanity 
Of lusting to be known, 
And gladly hail my changeless doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb ! 



THE JOYS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

I HAVE a wish, and it is this : that, in some uncouth 

glen. 
It were my lot to find a spot unknown by selfish 

men ; 
Where I might be securely free, hke Eremite of 

old, 
From Worldly guile, from Woman's wile, and 

Friendships brief and cold ; 
And where I might, with stern delight, enjoy the 

varied form 
Of Nature's mood, in every rude burst of the 

thundering storm. 



126 A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

Then would my life, lacking fierce strife, glide on 
in dreamy gladness. 

Nor would I know the cark and woe which come 
of- this world's madness ; 

While in a row, like some poor show, its pagean- 
tries would pass, 

Without a sigh, before mine eye, as shadows o'er a 
glass : 

Nonentity these shadows be, — and yet, good Lord! 
how brave 

That knavish rout doth strut and flout, then shrink 
into the grave! 

The Wilderness breathes gentleness ; — these waters 

bubbling free,' 
The gallant breeze that stirs the trees, form 

Heaven's own melody ; 
The far-stretched sky, with its bright eye, pours 

forth a tide of love 
On everything that here doth spring, on all that 

glows above. 
But live with man, — his dark heart scan, — its paltry 

selfishness 
Will show to thee why men like me love the lone 

Wilderness ! 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 



And mighty rivers flowing 

On, forever on. 
As stately forms were growing, 
As lustj spirits blowing, 
And as mighty fancies flowing 

On, forever on ; — 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 127 



Sorrow, and heart-breakinj^ 

And a moan pale Echo's making, 

For the gone, forever gone ! 

Lovely stars are glfeaming. 
Bearded lights are streaming, 
And glorious suns are beaming 

On, forever on. 
As lovely eyes were gleaming. 
As wondrous lights were streaming. 
And as glorious minds were beaming 

On, forever on ; — 
But there has been soul-sundering, 
Wailing, and sad wondering ; 
For graves grow fat with plundering 

The sfone, forever gone ! 



We see great eagles soaring, 
We hear deep oceans roaring. 
And sparkling fountains pouring 

On, forever on. 
As lofty minds were soaring, 
As sonorous voices roaring, 
And as sparkling wits were pouring 

On, forever on ; — 
But pinions have been shedding. 
And voiceless darkness spreading. 
Since a measure Death's been treading 

O'er the gone, forever gone ! 

Everything is sundering,' 

Every one is wondering, 

And this huge globe goes thundering 

On, forever on ; 
But 'mid this weary sundering, 
Heart-breaking, and sad wondering. 
And this huge globe's rude thundering 

On, forever on, 



128 THE EXPATEIATEl). 

I would that I w^re dreaming 
Where little flowers are gleaming, 
And the long green grass is streaming 
O'er the gone, forever gone ! 



THE EXPATRIATED. 

No bird is singing 

In cloud or on tree, 
No eye is beaming 

Glad welcome to me ; 
The forest is tuneless ; 

Its brown leaves fast fall, — 
Changed and withered, they fleet 

Like hollow friends all. 

No door is thrown open, 

No banquet is spread ; 
No hand smooths the pillow 

For the Wandei'er's head ; 
But the eye of distrust 

Sternly measures his way, 
And glad are the cold lips 

That wish him — good day ! 

Good day ! — I am grateful 

For such gentle prayer, 
Though scant be the cost 

Of that morsel of air. 
Will it clothe, will it feed me, 

Or rest my worn frame ? 
Good day ! wholesome diet, 

A proud heart to tame ! 

Now the sun dusks his glories 
Below the blue sea. 



FACTS FROM FAIRY-LAND. 129 

And no star its splendor 

Deems worthy of me ; 
The path I must travel 

Grows dark as my fate, 
And nature, like man, can 

Wax savage in hate. 

My country ! my country ! 

Though step-dame thou be, 
Yet my heart, in its anguish, 

Cleaves fondly to thee ; 
Still in fancy it lingers 

By mountain and stream, ' 
And thy name is the spirit 

That rules its wild dream. 

This heart loved thee truly, — 

And, O ! it bled free. 
When it led on to glory 

Thy proud chivalry ; 
And, O ! it gained much from 

Thy prodigal hand, — 
The freedom to break in 

The stranger's cold land ! 



FACTS FROM FAIRY-LAND. 

" 0, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you ! 

WouLDST thou know of me 
Where our dwellings be ? 
'Tis under this hill. 
Where the moonbeam chill 

Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade, — 
'Tis under this mound 
Of greenest ground. 

That our crystal palaces are made. 
9 



130 FACTS FKOM FAIRY-LAND. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our food may be ? 

*Tis the sweetest breath 

Which the bright flower hath, 
That blossoms in wilderness afar, — 

And we sip it vip, 

In a harebell cup, 
By the winking light of the tweering star- 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our drink may be ? 

'Tis the freshest dew. 

And the clearest, too. 
That ever hung on leaf or flower : 

And merry we skink 

That wholesome drink. 
Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our pastimes be ? 

'Tis the hunt and halloo. 

The dim greenwood through ; 
O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn, 

O'er moor and fell, 

And hollow dell, 
Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn. 

Wouklst thou know of me 

What our garments be ? 

'Tis the viewless thread 

Which the gossamers spread 
As they float in the cool of a summer eve bright, 

And the down of the rose. 

Form doublet and hose 
For our Squires of Dames on each festal night. 

Wouldst thou know of me 
When our revelries be ? 
'Tis in the still night 
When the moonshine white 



VERSES TO THE LADY OF MY HEART. 131 

Glitters in glory o'er land and sea, 

That, with nimble foot, 

To tabor and llute, 
We whirl with our loves round you glad old tree. 



CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE 
LADY OF MY HEART. 

The murmur of the merry brook. 

As gushingly and free 
It wimples, with its sun-bright look. 

Far down yon sheltered lea. 
Humming to every drowsy flower 

A low, quaint lullaby. 
Speaks to my spirit, at this hour, 

Of Love and thee. 

The music of the gay, green wood. 

When every leaf and tree 
Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood, 

To utter harmony ; 
And the small birds that answer make 

To the wind's fitful glee. 
In me most blissful visions wake. 

Of Love and thee. 

The rose perks up its blushing clieek, 

So soon as it can see 
Along the eastern hills one streak 

Of the Sun's majesty : 
Laden with dewy gems, it gleams 

A jjrecious freight to me. 
For each pure drop thereon meseems 

A type of thee. 

And when, abroad in summer morn, 
I hear the blithe, bold bee 



132 BENEATH A PLACID BROW. 

Winding aloft his tiny horn, 

(An errant knight perdy,) 
That winged hunter of rare sweets 

O'er many a far country, 
To me a lay of love repeats, 

Its subject — thee. 

And when, in midnight hour, I note 

The stars so pensively. 
In their mild beauty, onward float 

Through heaven's own silent sea ; 
My heart is in their voyaging 

To realms where spirits be, 
ut its mate, in " 

Is ever thee ! 

But O, the murmur of the brook. 

The music of the tree ; 
The rose, with its sweet, shamefaced look, 

The booming of the bee ; 
The course of each bright voyager 

In heaven's unmeasured sea, 
Would not one heart-pulse of me stir, 

Loved I not thee ! 



BENEATH A PLACID BROW. 

Beneath a placid brow 

And tear-unstained cheek, 
To bear as I do now 

A heart that well could break ; 
To stimulate a smile 

Amid the wrecks of grief, — 
To herd among the vile, 

And therein seek relief, — 



BENEATH A PLACID BROW. 133 

For the bitterness of thought 
Were joyance dearly bought. 

When will man learn to bear 

His heart nailed on his breast, 
With all its lines of care 

In nakedness confessed ? — 
Why, in this solemn mask 

Of passion-wasted life, 
Will no one dare the task, 

To speak his sorrows rife ? — 
Will no one bravely tell. 
His bosom is a hell ? 

I scorn this hated scene 

Of masking and disguise. 
Where men on men still gleam, 

With falseness in their eyes ; 
Where all is counterfeit, 

And truth hath never say ; 
Where hearts themselves do cheat. 

Concealing hope's decay, 
And, writhing at the stake, 
Themselves do liars make. 

Go, search thy heart, poor fool ' 

And mark its passions well ; 
'Twere time to go to school, — 

'Twere time the truth to tell, — 
'Twere time this world should cast 

Its infant slough away. 
And hearts burst forth at last 

Into the light of day : — 
'Twere time all learned to be 
Fit for Eternity ! 



134 THE covenanters' BATTLE-CHANT. 



THE COVENANTERS' BATTLE-CHANT. 

To battle ! to battle ! ; 

To slaughter and strife ! 
For a sad, broken Covenant 

We barter poor life. 
The great God of Judah 

Shall smite with our hand, 
And break down the idols 

That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In prayer, and in song ; 
Remember the battle 

Is not to the strong ; — 
Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 

And onward they come, 
To the vain noise of trumpet, 

Of cymbal, and drum. 

They haste to the onslaught, 

With hagbut and spear ; 
They lust tor a banquet 

That's deathful and dear. 
Now horseman and footman 

Sweep down the hill-side : 
They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 

To die in their pride ! 

See, long plume and pennon 

Stream gay in the air ; 
They are given us for slaughter, — 

Shall God's people spare ? 
Nay, nay ; lop them off, — 

Friend, father, and son ; 
All earth Is athirst till 

The good work be done. 



TIM THE TACKET. 135 

Brace tight every buckler, 

And lift high the sword ! 
For biting must blades be 

That fight for the Lord. 
Remember, remember, 

How Saints' blood was shed, 
As free as the rain, and 

Homes desolate made ! 

Among them ! — among them ! 

Unburied bones cry ; 
Avenge us, — or, like us, 

Faith's true mai-tyrs die. 
Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 

Slay on, and spare none : 
Then shout forth in gladness, 

Heaven's battle is won ! 



TIM THE TACKET. 

A LTRICAL BALLAD, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY W. W. 

A BARK is lying on the sands. 
No rippling wave is sparkling near her ; 
She seems unmanned of all her hands, — 
There's not a soul on board to steer her ! 

'Tis strange to see a shipshape thing 
Upon a lonely beach thus lying, 
While mystic winds forever sing 
Among its shrouds like spirits sighing. 

O, can it be a spectre-ship, 
Forwearied of the storm and ocean, 
That here hath ended its last trip, 
And sought repose from ceaseless motion ? 



136 TIM THE TACKET. 

I deem amiss : for yonder, see, 

A sailor struts in dark-bluejacket, — 

A little man Avith face of glee, — 

His neighbors call him Tim the Tacket. 

I know him well ; the master he 

Of a small bark, — an Irish coaster ; 

His heart is like the ocean, free. 

And hke the breeze his tongue's a boaster. 

He is a father, too, I'm told, 
Of children ten, and some say twenty ; 
But it's no matter, he's grown old, 
And, ten or more, he has got plenty ! 

List ! now he sings a burly stave 

Of waves and winds and shipwrecks many, 

Of flying-fish and dolphins brave. 

Of mermaids lovely but uncanny. 

Right oft, I ween, he joys to speak 

Of slim maids in the green waves dancing, 

Or singing in some lonesome creek. 

While kembing locks like sunbeams glancin* 

O, he hath tales of wondrous things 
Spied in the vast and gousty ocean; 
Of monstrous fish, whose giant springs 
Give to the seas their rocking motion ; 

And serpents huge whose rings embrace 
Some round leagues of the great Pacific ; 
And men of central Ind, sans face, 
But not on that head less terrific ! 

Lo ! he hath lit a brown cigar, 
A special, smooth-skinned, real Havanna ; 
And swirling smoke he puff's afar, — 
'Tis sweet to him as desert manna ! 



TIM THE TACKET. . 137 

Away, away the reek doth a;o, 
In wiry thread or heavy volume ; 
Now black, now blue, gold, gray, or snow 
In color, and in height a column ! 

His little eyes, deep-set, and hedged 
All round and round with bristles hoary. 
Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged, — 
Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory ! 

Well, I would rather be that wight, 
Contented, pufiing, midst his tackling. 
Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight, 
In masquerade or senate cackling. 

He suns his limbs upon the deck, 
He hears the music of the ocean ; 
He lives not on another's beck. 
He pines not after court promotion. 

He is unto himself, — he is 
A little world within another ; 
And furthermore he knoweth this, 
That all mankind to him is brother. 

He sings his songs, and smokes his weed, 
He spins his yarn of monstrous fables, 
He cracks his biscuit, and at need 
Can soundly sleep on coiled-up cables. 

Although the sea be sometimes rough, 
His bark is stout, its rudder steady, 
At other whiles 'tis calm enough. 
And buxom as a gentle lady. 

In sooth, too, 'tis a pleasant thing, 
To sail, and feel the sea-breeze blowing 
About one's cheek, — O ! such doth bring 
Full many a free-born thought and glowing. 



138 . THE witches' joys. 

For who upon the deep, deep sea 

Ere dwelt, and saw its great breast heaving, 

But, by a kindred sympathy, 

Felt his own heart its trammels leaving ? 

The wide and wild, the strange and grand, 
Commingle with his inmost spirit ; 
He feels a riddance from the land,— 
A boundlessness he may inherit. 

Good night, thou happy, ancient man ! 
Farewell, thou mariner so jolly ! 
I pledge thee in this social can, 
Thou antipode of melancholy ! 



THE AVITCHES' JOYS. 



Whex night winds rave 
O'er the fresh-scooped grave. 
And the dead therein that lie 
Glare upward to the sky ; 
When gibbering imps sit down. 
To feast on lord or clown. 
And tear the shroud away 
From their lithe and pallid prey ; 
Then, clustering close, how grim 
They munch each withered limb ! 
Or quarrel for dainty rare, 
The lip of lady fair, — 
The tongue of high-born dame, 
That never would defame. 
And was of scandal free 
As any mute could be ! 
Or suck the tintless cheek 
Of maiden mild and meek ; 
And when in revel rout 



THE witches' joys. 139 

They kick peeled skulls about, 
And shout in maddest mirth, — 
These dull toys awed the earth ! 

O then, O then, O then, 

We hurry forth amain ; 
For with such eldritch cries 
Bejxin our revelries ! 



When the murderer's blanched corse 
Swings with a sighing hoarse 
From gibbet and from chain. 
As the bat sucks out his brain, 
And the owlet pecks his eyes. 
And the Avild fox gnaws his thighs ; 
While the raven croaks with glee, 
Lord of the dead man's tree. 
And, rocked on that green skull, 
With sated look and dull. 
In gloomy pride looks o'er 
The waste and wildered moor, 
And dreams some other day 
Shall bring him fresher prey ; 
When over bog and fen, 
To lure wayfaring men. 
Malicious spirits trail 
A ground fire thin and pale, 
Which the belated wight 
Pursues the livelong night, 
Till in the treacherous ground 
An unmade grave is found, — 

O then, O then, O then, 

We hurry forth amain ; 
Ha ! ha ! his feeble cries 
Begin our revelries. 



When the spirits of the North 
Hurl howling tempests forth ; 



140 THE witches' joys. 

Wlien seas of lightning flare, 
And thunders choke the air ; 
When the ocean starts to hfe, 
• To madness, horror, strife. 

And the goodly bark breaks up, 
Like ungirded drinking-cup. 
And each stately mast is split 
In some rude thunder-fit ; 
And, like feather on the foam. 
Float shattered plank and boom ; 
When, 'midst the tempest's roar. 
Pale listeners on the shore 
Hear the curse and shriek of men, 
As they sink and rise again 
On the gurly billow's back. 
And their strong, broad breast-bones crack 
On the iron-ribbed coast. 
As back to hell they're tossed, — 
O then, O then, O then. 
We hurry forth again ! 
For amid such lusty cries 
Begin our revelries. 



When aged parents flee 

The noble wreck to see, 

And mark their sons roll in 

Through foam and thundering din. 

All mottled black and blue, — 

Their very lips cut through 

In the agony of death. 

While drifting on their path ; 

When gentle maidens stand 

Upon the wreck-rich strand. 

And every laboring wave 

That doth their small feet lave 

Gives them a ghastly lover 

To wring their white hands over, 

And tear their spray-wet hair 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 141 

In the madness of despair, — 

O then, O then, O then, 

We hurry home amain ; 
For their heart-piercing cries 
Shame our wild revelries ! 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 

The calmness of this noontide hour, 

The shadow of this wood, 
The fragrance of each wilding flower, 

Are marvellously good ; 
O, here crazed spirits breathe the balm 

Of nature's solitude ! 

It is a most delicious calm 
That resteth everywhere, — 

The holiness of soul-sung psalm, 
Of felt but voiceless prayer ! 

With hearts too full to speak their bliss, 
God's creatures silent are. 

They silent are ; but not the less. 

In this most tranquil hour 
Of deep, unbroken dreaminess. 

They own that Love and Power 
Which, like the softest sunshine, rests 

On every leaf and flower. 

How silent are the song-filled nests 
That crowd this drowsy tree, — 

How mute is every feathered breast 
That swelled with melody ! 

And yet bright bead-like eyes declare 
This hour is ecstasy. 



142 A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 

Heart forth ! as uncaged bird through air, 

And mingle in the tide 
Of blessed things, that, lacking care, 

■ Now full of beauty glide 
Around thee, in their angel hues 
Of joy and sinless pride. 

Here, on this green bank that o'erviews 

The far-retreating glen. 
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse. 

On all Avithin thy ken ; 
For loveher scene sliall never break 

On thy dimmed sight again. 

Slow stealing from the tangled brake 

That skirts the distant hill, 
With noiseless hoof, two bright fawns make 

For yonder lapsing rill ; 
Meek children of the forest gloom, 

Drink on, and fear no ill ! 

And buried in the yellow broom 

That crowns the neighboring height, 

Couches a loutish shepherd groom. 
With all his flocks in sight.; 

Which dot the green braes gloriously 
With spots of living light 

It is a sight that filleth me 

AVith meditative joy, 
To mark these dumb things curiously 

Crowd round their guardian boy ; 
As if they felt this Sabbath hour 

Of bliss lacked all alio}'. 

I bend me towards the tiny flower, 

That underneath this tree 
Opens its little breast of sweets 

In meekest modesty, 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 143 

And breathes the eloquence of love 
In muteness, Lord ! to thee. 

There is no breath of wind to move 
The flag-like leaves, that spread 

Their grateful shadow far above 
This turf-supported head ; 

All sounds are gone, — all murmurings 
With living nature wed. 

The babbling of the clear well-springs. 

The whisperings of the trees, 
And all the cheerful jargonings 

Of feathered hearts at ease. 
That whilom filled the vocal wood, 

Have hushed their minstrelsies. 

The silentness of night doth brood 

O'er this bright summer noon ; 
And nature, in her holiest mood, 

Doth all things Avell attune 
To joy, in the i^eligious dreams 

Of green and leafy June. 

Far down the glen in distance gleams 

The hamlet's tapering spire. 
And, glittering in meridial beams, 
• Its vane is tongued with fire; 
And hark how sweet its silvery bell, — 

And hark the rustic choir ! 

The holy sounds float up the dell 

To fill my ravished ear. 
And now the glorious anthems swell 

Of worshippers sincere, — 
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed 

Faith's penitential tear. 

Dear Lord ! thy shadow is forth spread 
On all mine ey6 can see ; 



144 A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 

And filled at the pure fountain-head 

Of deepest piety, 
My heart loves all created things, 
. And travels home to thee. 

Around me while the sunshine flings 

A flood of mocky gold. 
My chastened spirit once more sings, 

As it was wont of old, 
That lay of gratitude which burst 

From young heart uncontrolled. 

When in the midst of nature nursed. 

Sweet influences fell 
On chidly hearts that were athirst, 

Like soft dews in the bell 
Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads, 

And breathed a fresher smell, — 

So, even now this hour hath sped 
In rapturous thought o'er me. 

Feeling myself with nature wed, — 
A holy mystery, — 

A part of earth, a part of heaven, 
A part, great God ! of Thee. 

Fast fade the cares of life's dull sweven, 

They perish as the Aveed, 
While unto me the power is given, 

A moral deep to read 
In every silent throe of mind 

External beauties breed. 



A MONODY. 145 



A MONODY. 



I. 
Hour after hour, 

Day after day, 
Some gentle flower 

Or leaf gives way 
Within the bower 

Of human hearts ; 
Tear after tear 

In anguish starts, 
For, green or sere, 

Some loved leaf parts 
From the arbere 

Of human hearts ; — 
The keen winds blow ; 
Rain, hail, and snow 

Fall everywhere ! 
And one by one. 
As life's sands run, 

These loved things fare. 
Till plundered hearts at last are won 

To woo despair. 



Why linger on. 

Fate's mockery here, 
When each is gone, 

Heart-loved, heart-dear ? 
Stone spells to stone 

Its weary tale. 
How graves were filled. 

How cheeks waxed pale, 
How liearts were chilled 

With biting gale, 
And life's strings thrilled 

With sorrow's wail. 
10 



146 A MONODY. 

Flower follows flower 
In the heart's bower, 

To fleet away ; 
While leaf on leaf, 
Sharp grief on grief, 

Night chasing day, 
Tell as they fall, all joy is brief, 

Life but decay. 



The sea-weed thrown 

By wave or wind 
On strand unknown. 

Lone grave to find, 
Methinks may own 

Of kindred more 
Than I dare claim 

On life's bleak shore. 
Name follows name 

For evermore, 
As swift waves shame 

Slow waves before ; — 
For keen winds blow ; 
Rain, hail, and snow 

Fall everywhere, 
Till life's sad tree. 
In mockery. 

Skeletoned bare 
Of every leaf, is left to be 

Mate of despair. 



The world is wide, 
Is rich and fair, 

Its things of pride 
Flaunt everywhere ; 

But can it hide 
Its hollowness ? 

One mighty shell 



A MONODY. 147 

Of bitterness, 
One grand farewell 

To happiness, 
One solemn knell 

To love's caress, 
It seems to me. 
The shipless sea 

Hath bravery more 
Than this waste scene. 
Where what hath been 

Beloved of yore, 
In the heart's bower so fresh and green, 

Fades evermore/ 



From all its kind, • 

This wasted heart, 
This moody mind, 

Now drifts apart ! 
It longs to find 

The tideless shore, 
Where rests the wreck 

Of Heretofore, — 
The glorious wreck 

Of mental ore ; 
The great heartbreak 

Of loves no more. 
I drift alone. 
For all are gone 

Dearest to me ; 
And hail the wave 
That to the grave 

On hurrieth me : 
Welcome, thrice welcome, then, thy wave. 

Eternity ! 



148 THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 



THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER 
MONTHS. 

They come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, 

Song, and Flowers ; 
They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick 

leafiness to bowers. 
Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad, fling cark 

and care aside. 
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful 

waters glide ; 
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal 

tree. 
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt 

tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the 
hand. 

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is 
sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- 
ously. 

It stirs their blood, with kindest love, to bless and 
welcome thee : 

And mark how with thine own thin locks — they 
now are silvery gray — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, 
"Be gay!" 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon 

sky,^ 
But hath its own winged mariners to give it 

melody : 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 

gleaming like red gold. 
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry 

course they hold. 



THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 149 

God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above 

this earth, 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a 

nobler mirth. 

But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound, — from yonder 

wood it came ! 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his 

own glad name ; — 
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that, apart from all 

his kind. 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western 

wind ; 
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again, — his notes are 

void of art. 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep 

founts of the heart. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed 

wight like me, 
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this 

summer tree ! 
To suck once more in every breath their little souls 

away. 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's 

bright summer day. 
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, 

truant boy 
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a 

mighty heart of joy ! 

I'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but O ! I'm 

proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet 

delight to drink ; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, 

unclouded sky, 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days 

gone by. 



150 CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL. 

When summer's loveliness and light fall round me 

dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that 

hath waxed old ! 



CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL. 

Change sweepeth over all ! 

In showers leaves fall 
From the tall forest-tree ; 

On to the sea 
Majestic rivers roll. 

It is their goal. 
Each speeds to perish, in man's simple seeming, — 

Each disappears : 
One common end o'ertakes life's idle dreaming, 

Dust, darkness, tears ! 

Day hurries to its close : 

The sun, that rose 
A miracle of light, 

Yieldeth to night ; 
The skirt of one vast pall 
O'ershadows all. 
Yon firmamental cresset lights forth shining. 

Heaven's highest born ! 
Droop on their thrones, and, like pale spirits pining, 
Vanish with morn. 

O'er cities of old days, 

Dumb creatures graze ; 
Palace and pyramid 

In dust are hid ; 
Yea, the sky-searching tower 

Stands but its hour. 



O, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS. 151 



Sea turns to shore, 
And stars and systems through dread space are 
drifting, 
To shine no more. 

Names perish that erst smote 

Nations remote, 
With panic, fear, or wrong ; 

Heroic song 
Grapples with time in vain ; 

On to the main 
Of dim forgetfuhiess forever rolling. 

Earth's bubbles burst ; 
Time o'er the wreck of ages sternly tolling 

The last accursed. 

The world is waxing old, 
Heaven dull and cold ; 
Naught lacketh here a close 

Save human woes. 
Yet they too have an end, — 
Death is man's friend : 
Doomed for a while, his heart must go on breaking, 

Day after day, 
But light, love, life, — all, — all at last forsaking, 
Clay claspeth clay ! 



O, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS. 

O, WAE be to the orders that marched my luve 

awa'. 
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears 

doun fa', 
O, wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanic, 
For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart 

to me. 



152 O, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS. 

The drums beat in the mornin' afore the scriech 

o'day, 
And the wee wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while 

yet the morn was gray ; 
The bonnie flags were a' unfurled, a gallant sight 

to see, 
But waes me for my sodger lad that marched to 

Germanie. 

O, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' 
Leith, 

O, dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw-drift in 
the teeth ! 

And, O, the cauld wind froze the tear that gath- 
ered in my e'e, 

When I gade there to see my luve embark for Ger- 
manie ! 

I looked ower the braid, blue sea, sae long as could 

be seen 
Ae wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad 

was in ; 
But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, and the 

ship sailed speedilie, 
And the waves and cruel wars hae twinned my 

winsome luve frae me. 

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, 
But a' the day I spier what ne^vs kind neibour 

bodies bring ; 
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, 
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I am sure to let 

doun three. 

My father says I'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, 
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be ; 
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae 

my e'e : 
O, they hae nae winsome luve like mine in the 

wars o' Germanie ! 



wearie's well. 153 



WEAEIE'S WELL. 

In a saft simmer gloamin', 

In yon dowie dell, 
It was there we twa first met 

By Wearie's cauld well, 
We sat on the brume bank, 

And looked in the burn, 
But sidelaug we looked on 

Ilk ither in turn. 

The corn-craik was chirming 

His sad eerie cry, 
And the wee stars were dreaming 

Their path through the sky ; 
The burn babbled freely 

Its love to ilk flower, 
But Ave heard and Ave saw naught 

In that blessed hour. 

We heard and we saAv naught 

Above or around ; 
We felt that our lo\'e lived, 

And loathed idle sound. 
I gazed on your sAveet face 

Till tears filled my e'e. 
And they drapt on your Avee loof,- 

A warld's Avealth to me. 

Now the Avinter's snaAv's fa'ing 

On bare holm and lea ; 
And the cauld Avind is strippin' 

Ilk leaf afF the tree. 
But the snaAv fa's not faster. 

Nor leaf disna part 
Sae sune frae the bough, as 

Faith fades in your heart. 



154 SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 

Ye've waled out anither 
Your bridegroom to be ; 

But can his heart luve sae 

■ As mine luvit thee ? 

Ye'll get biggings and mailins, 
And monie braw claes ; 

But they a' winna buy back 
The peace o' past days. 

Fareweel, and forever, 

My first luve and last, 
May thy joys be to come, — 

Mine live in the past. 
In sorrow and sadness, 

This hour fa's on me ; 
But light as thy luve, may 

It fleet over thee ! 



SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 

Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade's 

in our hand. 
Our birthright is the ocean vast, — we scorn the 

girdled land ; 
And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none 

can bolder be 
Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a 

proud and swelling sea ! 

Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts 
quivering bend 

Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo 
of a friend ; 

And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled bil- 
low's foam, 

While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer 
old Ocean as our home ! 



SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 155 

Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the 

gallant wind, 
And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim, 

mean speck behind ; 
We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed 

spirits soar, 
Like stars of fire through boundless space, — through 

realms without a shore ! 

Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we 
bound free. 

The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereign- 
ty; 

No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of 
man can mete 

The sky which arches o'er our head, — the waves 
which kiss our feet ! 

The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, 
in his pride ; 

But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast, — the un- 
tamed ocean tide ; 

And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the 
saucy wave, 

While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the 
glories of the brave. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the wind is up, — it bloweth fresh 

and free, 
And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its 

fearless glee ; 
Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they 

madly kiss the spray. 
As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea- 

King bears away ! 



156 THE MERRY GALLANT. 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 

A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde, 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And O ! the thundering presse of knightes 

Whenas their war cryes swell, 
May tele from heaven an angel bright. 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, 

And don your helmes amaine : 
Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor, call 

Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand, — 
Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 

Thus weepe and puling crye. 
Our business is like men to fight. 

And hero-like to die ! 



THE MERRY GALLANT. 

The Merry Gallant girds his sword, 
And dons his helm in mickle glee ; 
He leaves behind his lady-love 
For tented fields and deeds which prove 
Stout hardiment and constancy. 



THE knight's song. 157 

When round him rings the din of arms, — 

The notes of high-born chivalry, — 
He tliinks not of his bird in bower, 
And scorns to own Love's tyrant power 
Amid the combats of the Free. 

Yet in the midnight watch, I trow. 
When cresset lights all feebly burn, 

AVill hermit Fancy sometimes roam 

With eager travel back to home, 

Where smiles and tears await — return. 

" Away ! away ! " he boldly sings, 

" Be thrown those thoughts which cling to me ; 
That mournful look and glistering eye, — 
That quivering lip and broken sigh ; — 

Why fill each shrine of memory ? 

" O that to-morrow's dawn would rise 
To light me on my path of glory. 
Where I may pluck from niggard fame 
Her bravest laurels, — and the name 
That long shall live in minstrel story ! 

" Then, when my thirst for fame is dead. 
Soft love may claim his wonted due ; 
But now, when levelled lances gleam. 
And chargers snort, and banners stream. 
To lady's love a long adieu ! " 



THE KNIGHT'S SONG. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Are those dark lustrous eyes. 

Through their silk fringes peering ? 



158 THE knight's song. 

They love me ! they love me ! 

Deeply, sincerely ; 
And more than aught else on earth, 

I love them dearly. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Glows the glad, sunny smile 

On thy soft cheek appearing ? 
It brightens ! it brightens ! 

As I am nearing ; 
And 'tis thus that thy fond smile 

Is ever endearing. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Is that lute-breathing voice 

Which my rapt soul is hearing ? 
'Tis singing, 'tis singino; 

Thy deep love for me, 
And my faithful heart echoes 

Devotion to thee. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
At each Passage of Arms 

Is the herald's bold cheering? 
'Tis then thou art kneeHng 

With pure hands to Heaven, 
And each prayer of thy heart 

For my good lance 'is given. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Is the fillet of silk 

That my right arm is wearing ? 
Once it veiled the bright bosom 

That beats but for me ; 
Now it circles the arm that 

Wins glory for thee ! 



THE trooper's DITTY. 159 



THE TROOPER'S DITTY. 

Boot, boot into the stirrup, lads, 

And hand once more on rein ; 
Up, up into the saddle, lads. 

Afield we ride again ; 
One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear, 

No leisure now to sigh, 
God bless them all, — we have their prayers, 

And they our hearts, — " Good by ! " 
Off, off we ride, in reckless pride. 

As gallant troopers may. 
Who have old scores to settle, and 

Long slashing swords to pay. 

The trumpet calls, — '• Trot out, trot out," — 

We cheer the stirring sound ; 
Swords forth, my lads, — through smoke and dust 

We thunder o'er the ground. 
Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds, 

That blind us while we sing, — 
Woe worth the knave who follows not 

The banner of the King ; 
But luck befall each trooper tall, 

That cleaves to saddle-tree. 
Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce 

The rights of Majesty. 

Spur on, my lads ; the trumpet sounds 

Its last and stern command, — 
" A charge ! a charge ! " — an ocean burst 
• Upon a stormy strand. 
Ha ! ha ! how thickly on our casques 

Their popguns rattle shot ; 
Spu-r on, my lads, we'll give it thejn 

As sharply as we've got. 



160 HE IS GONE ! HE IS GONE ! 

Now for it : — now, bend to the work, — 

Their lines begin to shake ; 
Now, through and through them, — bloody lanes 

Our flashing sabres make ! 

" Cut one, — cut two, — first point," and then 

We'll parry as we may ; 
On, on the knaves, and give them steel 

In bellyfuls to-day. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Church and State, 

For Country and for Crown, 
We slash away, and right and left 

Hew rogues and rebels down. 
Another cheer ! the field is clear, 

The day is all our own ; 
Done like our sires, — done like the swords 

God gives to guard the Throne ! 



HE IS GONE ! HE IS GONE 1 

He is gone ! he is gone ! 

Like the leaf from the tree. 
Or the down that is blown 

By the wind o'er the lea. 
He is fled, the light-hearted ! 
Yet a tear must have started 
To his eye, when he parted 

From love-stricken me ! 

He is fled ! he is fled ! 

Like a gallant so free, 
Plumed cap on his head, • 

And sharp sword by his knee ; 
While his gay feathers fluttered, 
Surely something he muttered ; 
He at least must have uttered 

A farewell to me ! 



THE forester's CAROL. 161 

He's away ! he's away 

To far lands o'er the sea, — 
And long is the day 

Ere home he can be ; 
But where'er his steed prances, 
Amid thronging lances, 
Sure he'll think of the glances 

That love stole from me ! 

He is gone ! he is gone ! 

Like the leaf from the tree ; 
But his heart is of stone 

If it ne'er dream of me ; 
For I dream of him ever ; 
His buff-coat and beaver, 
And long sword, O, never 

Are absent from me ! 



THE FORESTER'S CAROL. 

Lusty Hearts ! to the wood, to the merry green- 
wood, 
While the dew with strung pearls loads each blade, 
And the first blush of dawn brightly streams o'er 
the lawn. 
Like the smile of a rosy-cheeked maid. 

Our horns with wild music ring glad through each 
shaw. 
And our broad arrows rattle amain ; 
For the stout bows we draw to the greenwoods 
give law, 
And the Might is the Right once again ! 

.Mark yon herds, as they brattle and brush down 
the glade, — 
Pick the fat, let the lean rascals go ; 
11 



162 MAY MORN SONG. 

Under favor 'tis meet that we tall men should eat, — 
Nock a shaft and strike down that proud doe ! 

Well delivered, parfay ! convulsive she leaps, — 
One bound more, — then she drops on her side ; 

Our steel hath bit smart the life-strings of her heart, 
And cold now lies the green forest's pride. 

Heave her up, and away ! — should any base churl 
Dare to ask why we range in this wood, 

There's a keen arrow yare in each broad belt to 
spare. 
That will answer the knave in his blood ! 

Then forward, my Hearts ! like the bold, reckless 
breeze, 

Our life shall whirl on in mad glee ; 
The long bows we bend, to the world's latter end, 

Shall be borne by the hands of the Free ! 



MAY MORN SONG. 

The grass is wet with shining dews. 

Their silver bells hang on each tree, 
While opening flower and bursting bud 

Breathe incense forth unceasingly ; 
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw, 

The throstle glads the spreading thorn, 
And cheerily the blithesome lark 
Salutes the rosy face of morn. 
'Tis early prime ; 

And hark ! hark ! hark ! 
His merry chime 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he heralds in 
The jolly sun with matin hymn. 



THE BLOOM. HATH FLED THY CHEEK. 163 

Come, come, my love ! and May-dews shake 

In pailfuls from each drooping bough ; 
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom. 

That breaks upon thy }'oung cheek now. 
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, 

Aurora's smiles are streaming free ; 
With earth it seems brave holiday, 
In heaven it looks high jubilee. 
And it is right, 

For mark, love, mark ! 
How bathed in light 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he upward flies, 
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies. 

They lack all heart, who cannot feel 

The voice of heaven within them thrill, 
In summer morn, wl»en, mounting high, 

This merry minstrel sings his fill. 
Now let us seek yon bosky dell. 

Where brightest wild-flowers ohoose to be, 
And where its clear stream murmurs on, 
Meet type of our love's purity ; 
No witness there, 

And o'er us, hark ! 

High in the air . 

Chirrups the lark : 

Chirrup ! chirrup ! away soars he, 

Bearing to heaven my vows to thee ! 



THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, 
I^IARY. 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, 

As spring's rath blossoms die. 
And sadness hath o'ershadowed now 

Thy once bright eye ; 



164 THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK. 

But look, on me the j)rints of grief 
Still deeper lieu 

Farewell ! 

Thy hps are pale and mute, Mary, 

Thy step is sad and slow. 
The morn of gladness hath gone by 
Thou erst did know ; 
• I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 
For very woe. 

Farewell ! 

It seems as 'twere but yesterday 
We were the happiest twain, 

When murmured sighs and joyous tears, 
Dropping like rain, 

Discoursed my love, and told how loved 
I was again. * 

Farewell. 

'Twas not in cold and measured phrase 
We gave our passion name ; 

Scorning such tedious eloquence. 
Our hearts' fond flame 

And long-imprisoned feelings fast 
In deep sobs came. 
Farewell ! 

Would that our love had been the love 
That merest worldlings know. 

When passion's draught to our doomed li 
Turns utter woe. 

And our poor dream of happiness 
Vanishes so ! 

Farewell ! 

But in the wreck of all our hopes, 
There's yet some touch of bliss, 

Since fate robs not our wretchedness 
Of this last kiss : 



IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT. 165 

Despair, and love, and madness, meet 
In this, in this. 

Farewell ! 



IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT. 

In the quiet and solemn night, 
When the moon is silvery bright. 
Then the screech-owl's eerie cry 
Mocks the beauties of the sky : 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

Its wild halloo 
Doth read a drowsy homily. 

From yon old castle's chimneys tall. 
The bat on leathern sail doth fall 
In wanton-wise to skim the earth, 
And flout the mouse that gave it birth. 

Tu whit, tu whoo. 

That wild halloo 
Hath marred the Httle monster's mirth. 

Fond lovers seek the dewy vale. 
That swimmeth in the moonshine pale, 
But maids ! beware, when in your ear 
The screech-owl screams so loud and clear : 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

Its wild halloo 
Doth speak of danger lurking near. 

It bids beware of murmured sigh, 
Of air-spun oath and wistful eye ; 
Of star that winks to conscious flower 
Through the roof of leaf-clad bower : 

Tu whit, tu whoo. 

That wild halloo 
Bids startled virtue own its power ! 



166 thp: voice of love. 



THE VOICE OF LOVE. 

When shadows o'er the landscape creep, 
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep ; 
When flower-cups all with dewdrops gleam, 
And moonshine floweth like a stream ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts which love no longer dream, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake. 
And amorous leaves sweet music wake ; 
When slumber steals o'er every eye, 
And Dian's self shines drowsily ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts which love with rapture sigh, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When surly mastiffs stint their howl, 
And swathed in moonshine nods the owl ; 
When cottage-hearths are glimmering low, 
And warder cocks forget to crow ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts feel passion's overflow, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When stilly night seems earth's vast grave, 
Nor murmur comes from wood or wave 
When land and sea, in wedlock bound 
By silence, sleep in bliss profound ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts like living well-springs sound, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 



AWAY ! away! o, do not say. 167 



AWAY ! AWAY ! O, DO NOT SAY. 

Away ! away ! O, do not say 

He can prove false to me : 
Let me believe but this brief day 

In his fidelity ; 
Tell me, that rivers backward flow, 
That unsunned snows like firebrands glow, 

I may believe that lay ; 
But never can believe that he 

Is false, and fled away. 

Ill-acted part ! ill-acted part ! 

I knew his noble mind, — 
He could not break a trusting heart, 

Nor leave his love behind ; 
Tell me yon sun will cease to rise, 
Or stars at night to gem the skies, 

I may believe such lay ; 
But never can believe that he 

Is false, and fled away. 

Can it be so ? O, surely no ! 

Must I perforce believe 
That he I loved and trusted so, 

Vowed only to deceive ? 
Heap coals of fire on this lone head. 
Or in pure pity strike me dead, — 

'Twere kindness, on the day 
That tells me one I loved so well 

Is false, — is fled away ! 



168 THE SERENADE. 



.0 AGONY! KEEN AGONY. 

O AGONY ! keen agony, 

For trusting heart to find 

That vows believed were vows conceived 

As fight as summer wind. 

O agony ! fierce agony, 

For loving heart to bropk, 

In one brief hour, the withering power 

Of unimpassioned look. 

O agony ! deep agony, 
For heart that's proud and high, 
To learn of fate how desolate 
It may be ere it die. 

O agony! sharp agony, 

To find how loath to part 

With the fickleness and faithlessness 

That break a trusting heart ! 



THE SERENADE. 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

Dear heart, awake 

From slumber's light ', 
For 'neath thy bower, at this still hour, 

In harness bright. 
Lingers thine own true paramour, 

And chosen knight ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 



THE SERENADE. 169 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

For thy loved sake, 

Each trembling star 
Smiles from on high with its clear eye, 

While nobler far 
Yon silvery shield lights earth and sky ; 

How good they are ! 

Wake, l^dy, wake ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Not star-filled skies 

I worship now ; 
A fairer shrine I trust is mine 

For loyal vow : 
O that the living stars would shine 

That light thy brow ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Rise, lady, rise. 

Ere war's rude cries 

Fright land and sea ! 
To-morrow's light sees mail-sheathed knight^ 

Even hapless me. 
Careering through the bloody fight 

Afar from thee ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Mute, lady, muteV 

I have no lute 

Nor rebeck small 
To soothe thine ear with lay sincere, 

Or madrigal ; 
With helm on head and hand on spear, 

On thee I call ! 

Mute, lady, mute ! 

Mute, lady, mute 
To love's fond suit ? 
I'll not complain, 



1-70 COULD LOVE IMPART. 

Since underneath thy balmy breath 

I may remain 
One brief hour more ere I seek death 

On battle-plain ! 

Mute, lady, mute ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

While watch 1 keep 

Till dawn of day : 
But o'er the wold now morning cold 

Shines icy gray ; 
While the plain gleams with steel and gold, 

And chargers neigh ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Nor wake to weep 

For heart^struck me : 
These trumpets knell my last farewell 

To love and thee ! 
When next they sound, 'twill be to tell 

I died for thee ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 



COULD LOVE BIPART. 

Could love impart, 

By nicest art, 
To speechless rocks a tongue,— 

Their theme would be, 

Beloved, of thee, — 
Thy beauty, all their song. 

And, clerklike, then, 
With sweet amen, 



. COULD LOVE IMPART. 171 

Would echo from each hollow 

Reply all day ; 

While gentle fay, 
With men'}' whoop, would follow. 

Had roses sense, 

On no pretence 
Would they their buds unroll ; 

For, could they speak, 

'Twas from thy cheek 
Their daintiest blush they stole. 

Had lilies eyes, 

With glad surprise 
They'd own themselves outdone, 

When thy pure brow 

And neck of snow 
Gleamed in the morning sun. 

Could shining brooks. 

By amorous looks, 
Be taught a voice so rare. 

Then every sound, 

That murmured round, 
Would whisper, " Thou art fair ! " 

Could winds be fraught 

With pensive thought 
At midnight's solemn hour. 

Then every wood, 

In gleeful mood, 
Would own thy beauty's power ! 

And could the sky 

Behold thine eye. 
So filled with love and light. 

In jealous haste 

Thou soon wert placed 
To star the cope of Night ! 



172 THE PARTING. 



THE PARTING. 



O, IS it thus we part, 
And thus we say farewell, 
As if in neither heart 
AjSection e'er did dwell ? 
And is it thus we sunder, 
Without a sigh or tear. 
As if it were a wonder 
We e'er held other dear ? 

We part upon the spot, 
With cold and clouded brow, 
Where first it was our lot 
To breathe love's fondest vow ! 
The vow both then did tender 
Within this hallowed shade, — 
That vow we now surrender, 
Heart-bankrupts both are made ! 

Thy hand is cold as mine. 
As lustreless thine eye ; 
Thy bosom gives no sign 
That it could ever sigh ! 
Well, well ! adieu's soon spoken, 
'Tis but a parting phrase, 
Yet said, I fear, heart-broken 
We'll live our after days ! 

Thine eye no tear will shed, 
Mine is as proudly dry ; 
But many an aching head 
Is ours before we die ! 
From pride we both can borrow, — 
To part we both may dare, — 
But the heart-break of to-morro^v, 
Nor you nor I can bear ! 



THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 173 



LOVE'S DIET. 

Tell me, fair maid, tell me truly, 
How should infant love be fed ; 
If with, dewdrops, shed so newly 

On the bright green clover-blade ; 
Or with roses plucked in July, 
And with honey liquored ? 
O, no ! O, no ! 
Let roses blow, 
^nd dew-stars to green blade cling ; 
Other fare. 
More light and rare, 
Befits that gentlest nursling. 

Feed him with the sigh that rushes 

'Tvvixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks, 
With the eloquence that flushes 

All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks ; 
Feed him with a world of blushes. 
And the glance that shuns, yet seeks : 
For 'tis with food, 
So light and good. 
That the Spirit child is fed ; 
And with the tear 
Of joyous fear 
That the small Elf's liquored. 



THE ISHDNIGHT WIND. 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
This midnight wind doth sigh. 

Like some sweet, plaintive melody 
Of ages long gone by ! 



174 THE waithman's wail. 

It speaks a tale of other years, — 
Of hopes that bloomed to die, — 

Of sunny smiles that set in tears, 
And loves that mouldering lie ! 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully, 

This midnight wind doth moan ! 
It stirs some cliord of memory 

In each dull, heavy tone : 
The voices of the much-loved dead 

Seem floating thereupon, — 
All, all my fond heart cherished 

Ere death hath made it lone. 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth swell, 
AVith its quaint, pensive minstrelsy, 

Hope's passionate farewell 
To the dreamy joys of early years. 

Ere yet grief's canker fell 
On the heart's bloom, — ay ! well may tears 

Start at that parting knell ! 



THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL.* 



The waithman goode of Silverwoode, 
That bowman stout and hende, 

In donjon gloofti abydes his doome ; 
God dele him gentil ende. 

It breakes trew herte to see him sterte, 
Whenas the small birdes sing ; 

And then to hear his sighynges drere 
Whenas his fetters ryng. 

* Waithman, — hunter. 



THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL. 175 



Of bowe and shafte he bin bereft, 

And eke of bugil home ; 
A goodlye wighte, by craftie slyghte, 

Alakel is overborne. — Old Ballad. 



My heart is sick ! my heart is sick ! 

And sad as heart can be ; 
It pineth for the forest brook, 

And for the forest tree ; 
It pineth for all gladsome things 

That haunt the woodlands free. 

O Silver wood, sweet Silverwood, 
Thy leaves be large and long ; 
And there, God wot, in summer eve. 



Like mine, in prison strong. 

The sun, in idle wantonness. 

Shines in this dungeon cold, 
But his bright glance through Silverwood 

I never shall behold ! 
I ne'er shall see each broad leaf gleam 

Like banner-flag of gold. 

It pains me, this o'ermastering light. 

Fast flooding from the sky, 
That streams through these black prison-bars 

In sheerest mockery. 
Recalling thoughts, by green woods bred. 

To mad me ere I die. 

Dear western wind, now blowing soft 

Upon my faded cheek. 
Thy angel whisperings seem even now 

Of Silverwood to speak ; 
Of streams and bowers that make man's heart 

As very woman's weak. 



176 THE waithman's wail. 

■ Soft western wind, with music fraught 
Of all to heart most clear ; 
Of birds that sing in greenest glade, 

Of streams that run so clear ; 
Why pour thy sweetness o'er the heart 
That wastes in dungeon drear ? 

The sunshine's for the jocund heart, 

The breeze is for the free ; 
They be for those who bend stout bow 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 
Sun ne'er should shine, breeze never blow, 

For fettered slave like me. 

I hear the hawk's scream in the wood, 
The bayings of gaunt hound. 

The sharp sough of the feathered shaft, 
The bugle's thrilling sound ; 

I hear them ; and, O God, these limbs 
With Spanish irons bound ! 

Strike these foul fetters from my wrist, 
These shackles from my knee, 

Set this foot 'gainst an earthfast stone. 
This back 'gainst broad oak-tree ; 

Give but one span of earth for fight. 
And I once more am free ! 

A single hand, a single brand, 

Against uncounted foes, 
A heart that's withered like a leaf, 

In brooding o'er its woes, 
Are surely not such deadly odds 

For stout men to oppose. 

But no ; bound here 'midst rotting straw, 

Within this noisome cell. 
They joy to see a proud heart break, 

And ring its own sad knell ; 



THE troubadour's LAMENT. 177 

They joy to hear me, Silverwood, 
Bid thee and life farewell. 

So let it be ; sweet Silverwood, 

On daylight's latest beam, 
My spirit seeks again thy glades, \ 

ReA'isits flower and stream ; 
And fleets through thee, unchanged in love, 

In this my dying dream. 



THE TROUBADOUR'S LAMENT. 

It was a gallant troubadour, 

A child of SAVord and song, 
That loved a gentle paramour, 
And loved her leal and long ; 
He wooed her as a knight should woo, 

And, laying lance in rest, 
In listed fields her colors flew 
O'er many a haughty crest. 
He loved her as a bard should do, 

And, taking harp in hand. 
In sweetest lays that lad}''s praise 
He poured o'er many a land : 
But all in vain, 
Plis noblest strain 
Awoke no kind return ; 
That lady proud 
Smiled on the crowd. 
But his true love did spurn. 

It was a tristful troubadour. 

Heart-broken by disdain. 
That then to France and belle amour 

Bequeathed this mournful strain, 
12 



178 THE tkoubadour's lament. 

As riding on the yellow sand 
With many a knightly fere, 
He smote his harp with feeblest hand. 

To sing witli feebler cheer : 
Adieu, proud love ! adieu, fair land ! 

Where heathen banners float. 
This broken heart can act its part, 
Can die, and be forgot. 
Alas ! too late ; 
It was its fate 
To learn, with saddest pain, 
It loved one 
Who scorned to- own 
Her heart could love again. 

Fair France, farewell ! my latest breath 

Shall still be spent for thee. 
While meeting strife, I court my death 

In distant Galilee. 
My soul is bound up witli the glaive 

That glitters at my thigh. 
And fixed upon the banner brave 

Now flashing to the sky. 
A last adieu I well may waive 

To her I loved so well ; 
She does not care what doom I bear. 
Yet, heartless maid, farewell ! 
No bridal sheet 
For me is meet ; 
1 seek the soldier's bier. 
Who, for his God, 
Sleeps on the sod. 
Unstained by woman's tear. 



WHEN I AM SLEEPING. 179 



WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD, RED 
EARTH A^l SLEEPING. 

When I beneath the cold, red earth am sleeping, 

Life's fever o'er, 
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping 

That I'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 

Of heretofore ? 

When the great winds, through leafless forests 
rushing, 
Like full hearts break, • 
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully 
gushing. 
Sad music make ; 
Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing 
Mourn for my sake ? 

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 

With purest ray. 
And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms 
twining, 

Burst through that clay, — 
Will there be one still on that spot repining 

Lost hopes all day ? 

When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping 

Of her dark pall. 
The world and all its manifold creation sleeping, 

The great and small, — 
Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping 

For me, — for all '? 

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, 
On that low mound ; 



180 SPIRITS OF light! spirits of shade! 

And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 

Its loneness crowned ; 
Will there be then one versed in misery's story 

Pacing it round ? 

It may be so, — but this is selfish sorrow 

To ask such meed, — 
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, 

From hearts that bleed. 
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 

Shall never need. 

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, 

Thou gentle heart ; 
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, 

Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain, — for Time hath long been knelling, — 

Sad one, depart ! 



SPIRITS OF LIGHT! SPIRITS OF SHADE! 

Spirits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 
Hark to the voice of your love-crazed maid, 
Who singeth all night so merrily. 
Under the cope of the huge elm-tree. 
The snow may fall, and the bitter wind blow, 
But still with love must her heart overflow. 

The great elm-tree is leafy and high, 

And its topmost branch wanders far up in the sky ; 

It is clothed with leaves from top to toe ; 

For it loveth to hear the wild winds blow, — 

The winds that travel so fast and free. 

Over the land, and over the sea. 

Singing of marvels continuously. 

The moon on these leaves is shining (fver, 

And they dance like the waves of a gleaming river. 



SPIRITS OF LIGHT ! SPIRITS OF SHADE ! l8] 

But oft in the nlglit, 
When her smile shines bright, 
With the cold, cold dew they shiver. 
O, woe is me, for the suffering tree, 
And the little green leaves that shiver and dream 
In the icy moonbeam ! 
O, woe is me ! 

I would I were clad with leaves so green. 

And grew like this elm, a fair forest queen ; 

Could shoot up ten fingers like branches tall. 

Till the cold, cold dews would on me fall ; 

For to shiver is sweet when winds blow keen, 

Or hoarfrost powders the dreary scene. 

And, O, I would like that my flesh could creep 

With cold, as it was wont to do ; 

And that my heart like a flower went to sleep, 

When Winter his icy trumpet blew. 

And shook o'er the wolds and moorland fells 

His crisping beard of bright icicles. 

While his breath, as it swept adown the strath, 

Smote with death the burn as it brawled on its path, 

Stilled its tongue, and laid it forth 

In a lily-white smock from the freezing north. 

But woe, deep woe. 

It is not so. 

Spirits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 

Hearken once more to your love-stricken maid, 

For, O, she is sad as sad may be. 

Pining all night underneath this tree, 

Yet lacking thy goodly company. 

She is left self-alone. 

While the old forests groan, 

As they hear, down rushing froni the skies, 

The embattled squadrons of the air, 

Pealing o'er ridgy hills their cries 

Of battle, and of fierce despair. 

Through sunless valleys, deep and drear. 



182 SPIRITS OF LIGHT ! SPIRITS OF SHADE ! 

Hark, to their trumpets' brassy blare, 
The tramp of steed, and crash of spear ! 
Nearer yet the strife sweeps on, 
And I am left thus self-alone. 
With never a guardian spirit near, 
To couch for me a generous lance. 
When the Storm-fiends madly prance 
On their steeds of cloud and flame, 
To work a gentle maiden shame, 

O, misery ! 
I die ; and yet I scorn to blame 

Inconstancy. 
All in this old wood, 
They may shed my blood. 
But false to my true love 

I never can be. 

Peace, breaking heart ! it is not so, 

For sweetly I hear your voices flow, — 

All your sad, soft voices flow. 

Like the niurmurs of the ocean, 

Kissed by Zephyrs into motion; 

And when shells have found a tongue 

To sing, as they were wont to sing. 

When this noble world was young, 

And the sea formed love's bright ring, 

And hearts found hearts in everything. 

Now the trees find apt replying 

To your music, with a sighing 

That doth witch the owl to sleep ; 

And, waving their great arms to and fro, 

They feel ye walk, and their heads they bow 

In adoration deep. 

And I with very joy could now 

Like weakest infant weep. 

That hath its humor, and doth go 

With joy- wrung tears to sleep. 

And now all the leaves that are sere and dry 

Noiselessly fall, like stars from the sky ; 



SPIRITS OF LIGHT ! SPIRITS OF SHADE ! 183 

They are showering down on either hand, 

A brown, brown burden upon the land. 

And thus it will l^e with the love-stricken maid, 

That loveth the Spirits of Light and Shade, 

And whose thoughts commune with the spirits that 

write 
The blue book of heaven with words of light. 
And who bend down in k)ve for her, 

From their stately domes on high, 
To teach her each bright character 

That gleameth in her eye, 
When the solemn night unrolls 
The vast map of the world of souls. 
O, ecstasy ! rapt ecstasy ! 
For a poor maiden of earth like me ; 

To have and hold 
The spirits who shine like molten gold, 
Eternally. 

Beautiful Spirits ! flee me not ; 

For this is the hour, and this is the spot, 

AVhere we were wont of old to spell 

The language of the star-filled sky ; 

And walk tbrough heaven's own citadel, 

With stately step and upcast eye, 

And brows on which were deeply wrought 

The fadeless prints of glorious thought. 

Ye melt fast away in the dewy chill 

O' th' moonbeam, but yield to a maiden's will ; 

Take, ere ye vanish, this guerdon fair, 

A long lock of her sun-bright hair ; 

It was" shorn from temples that throbbed with pain, 

As the fearful thought wandered through the brain, 

That never again, as in days of yore. 

It might be her hap to gather lore 

From the dropping richness of liquid tones, 

That fall from the lips of spiritual ones. 

Scorn not my gift, — O, it is fair. 

As, streaming, it follows your course high in air ! 



184 SPIRITS OF light! spirits of shade! 

And here is a brave and flaunting thing : — 
A jolly green garland, braided well 
With roses wild, and foxglove bell, — 
With sage, and rue, and eglantine, — 
AVith ivy-leaf and holly green. 
Three times it was dipped in a faery spri*ig, 
And three times spread forth in a faery ring, 
When the dews fell thick and the moon was full ; 
And three times it clipped a dead man's skull, 
And three times it lay pillowed under this cheek, 
And lips that would, but could not speak, 
Where its bloom was preserved, by tears freshly 

shed, 
From a bursting heart's fond fountain-head. 
Take these gifts, then, ere ye go. 
Or my heart will break with its weight of woe, 

O, misery ! 
To love, and yet to be slighted so, 

Sad misery- 
Spirits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 
Once more thus prays your love-stricken maid ; 
Dig out, and spread in the white moonshine 
A goodly couch for these limbs of mine ; 
Fast by the roots of this stately tree. 
And three fathoms deep, that couch must be. 
And lightly strew o'er her the withered leaf; 
Meet shroud for maiden mild 'twill prove ; 
And as it falls it will lull her grief, 
With gentlest rustlings, breathing love. 
Then choose a turf that is wondrous light, 
And lap it softly o'er this breast ; 
And charge the dew-drops, large and bright, 
On its green grass forever to rest. 
So that, like a queen, clad in gems, she may lie, 

Right holily, 
With hands crossed in prayer, gazing up to the sky, 

Tranquilly, 

Eternally. 



THE MIDNIGHT LAMP. 185 



THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL. 

The banners rustle in the breeze, 

The angry trumpets swell ; 
They call me, lady, from thy arms, 

They bid me sigh farewell ! 

They call me to a heathen land. 

To quell a heathen foe ; 
To leave love's blandishments, and court 

Rude dangers, strife, and woe. 

Yet deem not, lady, though afar 

It be my hap to roam. 
That this right loyal heart can stray 

From love, from thee, and home. 

No ! in the tumult of the fight, 

'Midst Salem's chivalrie. 
The thought that arms this hand with death 

Shall be the thought of thee. 



THE MIDNIGHT LAMP. 

Thou pale and sickly lamp, 

Now glimmering like the glow-worm of the swamp, 

Shine on, I pray thee, for another hour, 

And shed thy wan and feeble lustre o'er 

This precious volume of forgotten lore 

My eyes devour. 

Shine on, I pray thee, but some little while ; 

Soon will the morning's ruddy smile 



186 COME DOWN, YE SPIRITS. 

Peep through the casement, like a well-known 

guest, 
And give thee needful rest. 

Even now the gray owl seeks his nest ; 
And in the farm-yards lusty cocks begin 
To flap their wings, and, with a rousing din, 
Cheer on the lagging morn. 
Right soon the careful churle will go 

m • • • • 

To view his ripenmg corn ; 

And up, and up, in a merry row, 

A thousand many- voiced birds will "spring. 

And in one general chorus sing 

Their matins to the skies. 

Then live some little while, poor sickening light, 

And glad my aching eyes ; 

Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright 

Has seen thy exequies. 

Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one. 

Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart, 

Doth shape his leave. 

I pray thee tarry, then. Alas ! thou'rt gone. 

Pity it is that in this mood we part. 



COME DOWN, YE SPIRITS! 

Come down, ye Spirits ! in your might come down ! 
Come down, ye Spirits of this midnight hour ! 
Come down in all your dim sublimity 
• And majesty of terror ! How I joy 
To meet you in your own dark territories, 
And hold mysterious converse in a tongue 
That hath quite perished among the sons 
Of fallen man ! Ye Spirits that do roam 
With unconfined footsteps o'er the paths 



DING DONG ! - 187 

Of measureless eternity, — ye who skim 
The bosomed cloud, or pace with hasty step 
The earth's green surface, and its every spot, 
Though ne'er so lone, deserted, and profound, 
Repeople with strange sounds and voices sweet, 
Which circle round, even when all else is still, 
And breed in vulgar breasts a nameless dread 
And awe inexplicable, which bids the flesh 
To creep, as if its every fibre were 
A many-footed and a living thing, 
Come down ! come down ! 

I hear ye come ! I hear your sounding wings 
Beat the impassive air with mighty strokes, 
And in the flickering moonshine I can see 
Your shadowy limbs, descending like a mist 
Of fleecy whiteness, on the slumbering earth. 
And now I hear the mingled harmonies 
Of all your voices fill the vaulted sky. 
Ye call upon me, — and my soul is glad 
To meet you on your pilgrimage, and join 
Its feeble echoes to your mighty song. 



DING DONG! 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The church bells chime 
At early prime, — 
A solemn stave, — 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
O'er the lovers' grave. 



Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The slow sounds weep. 



188 DING dong! 

And cadence keep 
With the wail of woe, — 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
O'er the grave below. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
Strew garlands round 
The holy ground 
Where twin hearts sleep. 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
And two friends weep. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The church bells play 
At close of day, 
With hollow tone. 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
They ever moan. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
Cold death hath laid 
In earthly bed 
Two hearts alone. 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
And made them one. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The church bells loom 
Above the tomb 
Where true loves meet. 
Ding dong ! Ding dong 1 
How sad and sweet ! 



CLEEKE RICHARD AND MAID MARGARET. 189 



CLERKE RICHARD AND MAID MARGA- 
RET. 

" A man must nedes love maugre his hed, 
He may not fleen it thougli he should be ded." 

Chaucer. 

There were two lovers who loved each other 
For many years, till hate did start. 
And yet they never quite could smother 
The former love that warmed their heart ; 
And both did love, and both did hate. 
Till both fulfilled the will of fate. 

Years after, and the maid did marry 
One that her heart had ne'er approved ; 
Nor longer could Gierke Richard tarry 
Where he had lost all that he loved. 
To foreign lands he reckless went 
To nourish love, hate, discontent. 

A word — an idle word of folly — 

Had spilled their love when it was young, 

And hatred, grief, and melancholy, 

In either heart is idly sprung ; 

And yet they loved, — and hate did wane, 

And much they wished to meet again. 

Of Richard still is Margaret dreaming ; 
His image lingered in her breast ; 
And oft at midnight, to her seeming, 
Her former lover stood confest ; 
And shedding on her bosom tears. 
The bitter wrecks of happier years. 

Where'er he went, by land or ocean. 
Still Richard sees dame Margaret there ; 



190 CLERKE RICHARD AND MAID 3IARGARET. 

And every throb and kind emotion 
His bosom knew were felt for her. 
And never new love hath he cherished ; 
The power to love with first love perished, 

Homeward is Gierke Richard sailing, 
An altered man from him of old, 
His hate had changed to bitter waiHng, 
And love resumed its wonted hold 
Upon his heart, which yearned to see 
The haunts and loves of infancy. 



He knew her faithless, nathless, ever ; 
He loved her, though no more his own ; 
Nor could he proudly now dissever 
The chain that round his heart was thrown. 
He loved her without hope, yet true, 
And sought her but to say adieu. 

For even in parting there is pleasure, 
A bitter joy that wrings the soul ; 
And there is grief surpassing measure, 
That will not bide nor brook control ; 
And yet a formal, fond leave-taking 
Is wished for by a heart nigh breaking. 



And trembling falter of the hand. 
And something in the tear down stealing, 
And voice so iDroken and so bland. 
And something in the word farewell. 
That worketh like a powerful spell ! 

These lovers met, and never parted ; 

They met as lovers wont to do 

Who meet when both are broken-hearted. 

To breathe a last and long adieu. 

Pale Margaret wept. Gierke Richard sighed ; 

And, folded in each other's arms, they died. 



LORD ARCHIBALD. 191 

Yes, they did die ere word was spoken ; 
Surprise, grief-love, had chained their tongue ; 
And now that hatred was ywroken, 
A wondrous joy in them had sprung. 
And then despair froze either heart, 
Which lived to meet, — but died to part. 

Gierke Richard he was buried low 

In fair Linlithgow ; and his love 

Was laid beside him there ; and lo, 

A bonnie tree did grow above 

Their double grave, and it doth flourish 

Green o'er the spot where love did perish. 



LORD ARCHIBALD. 



O, SAPTLiE, saftlie laie liim doun, and hap upo' 

his heid 
The cauld reid erd ful lichtlie fens, this is a knicht- 

lie rede ; 
And pight a carvit croce of stane abune qifliare he 

dois lye, • 

Syne it was for the halie rude Lord Archibald did 

die. 

Its saftlie, saftlie have thay layd Lord Archibald 

in graif. 
And its dowie, dowie owre his bouk thair plumis 

and banneris waif; 
And its hchtlie, lichtlie doe thay hap the red erth 

on his heid ; 
And waefil was ilk knichtly fere to luik upon the 

deid. 



192 LORD ARCHIBALD. 

Thay layd him doun wi' sighe and sab, and they 

layd him doun wi' tearis ; 
And nou abune the Olyve wuddis the ice-cauld 

• mune apperis ; 
Quhyl thai muntit on thayr stedis amayne a sor- 

rowand cmnpanie, 
And be the munelicht forthy thai begin a lang 

jornie. 

Awa thai rade, away thai rade, and the wynd 

souchit eerie by, 
And quhiskit afF ilk heavie tere quhilk gatherit in 

thair eye ; 
For weil thay hivit Lord Archibald as knichtis suld 

luve thair feris ; 
But littil thai affect Syr Hew, quha now thair 

fealtie bearis. 

Its thai have spurrit, and egre spurrit, and thair 

stedes ar al a fome, 
And nevir a word frae anie lip of thir silent 

knichtis hes come ; 
And still they spurrit and pukit on, til a lonesum 

lodge they wan, 
Then voydit thae thair saddilis al, and til the yett 

thay ran. 

Nae liclj* is schinand in the lodge, and nae portir 

keepis the dore ; 
Nae warder strade, wi lustie spere, that dreirie 

lodge before ; 
Nae harp is heard inurth the hall, and nae sang 

frae ladie braive. 
But al was quiet as Ermites houff, and stylliche as 

the grave. 

Swith pacit thai in be twa and twa, ilk wi his out- 
drawn swerd, 

And thai gang throu vaultit passages, albeit nae 
sound thay heard, 



LOKD ARCHlIiALD. 193 

Bot and it was the heavy clamp quliilk thair fit rang 

on the flore, 
Til that thay stude, ilk knicht of them, fornentes 

the grit hall dore. 

Now entir thou, the bauld Syr Hew, for treason do 

we feare ; 
Now entir first, as Captaine thou, of your brithern 

knichtis sae dier; 
For syne the gude Lord Archibald was layd aneth 

the stane. 
Our manlyke courage has yfled, and al our hertis 

have gane. 

The dark Syr Hew gade on before, and ane yreful 

man was he : 
" O, schame upon your manheidis al, and dishonour 

on ye be ; 
Quhat fleyis ye sua that nane may daur to threuw 

this chalmer lok ? " 
Then wi' his iron gauntlet he that aiken dore has 

broke. 

" Come in, Syr Hew ; come in, Syr Hew," a voice 

cryit fra within ; 
" Come in, Syr Hew, my buirdly bairn, quhilk are 

sua wicht and grim. 
But nevir nane sal entir here bot an yoursel alane ; 
Now welcum blythe to dark Syr Hew in this puir 

lodge of stane." 

Ilk knicht did hear the lonsura voyce, but the 

speiker nane did see. 
And dark Syr Hew waxit deadlie pale, quhyl the 

mist cam owre his ee. 
" Now turn wi' me, my merrie men al, to hald us 

on our way. 
For in this ugsum lodge this nicht nae pilgrimer 

may stay." 
13 



194 LORD ARCHIBALD. 

" Come back, Syr Hew, my knieht of grace, and 

come hither my trusty fere ; 
For thou hast wan a gudely fee, though nae lerges 

ye mote spere ; 
O, three woundis were on your britheris face, and 

three abune his knee ; 
But the deepest wound was throu his hert, and that 

was gi'en be thee." 

Ilk ane has heard the lonesum voyce, for it was 

schil and hie ; 
Ilk ane has heard its eerie skreich as it gaed soun- 

ing by ; 
Yet mervailous dul that lodge dois seem, and bot 

anie bruit or din ; 
Nae liand wicht dois herbour here but an that 

voyce within. 

And everie knieht has turnit him round to leave 

that hauntit ha'. 
And muntit on his swelterand stede, and pricket 

richt sune awa' ; 
And quhan this gallant cumpanye auld Askelon 

had nearit, 
The wan mune had gane fra the lift, and the grai 

daylight apperit. 

Then did they count thair numberis, and thay 
countit wyse a,nd true, 

And everilk ane was thair convenit but and the 
dark Syr Hew ; 

But in the press his horse was kythit wi' ane saddil 
toom and bare ; 

Och and alace, its maister sure liggis in som lane- 
lie lair. 

Back hae thay ridden league and myl, but nevir 

Syr Hew thai see ; 
Back hae thay ridden league and myl til quhare 

that lodge suld be ; 



LOKD ARCHIBALD. 195 

Oeh and alace, nae lodge is thair, nouthir of stane 

nor -wTid, 
But quliair it was lay the dark Syr Hew amid 

thick clotterit blude. 

His lyre was wan, his teeth were cleuchit, and his 

eyne did open stare, 
And wonderouslie lyke stiffened cordis stude up 

his coal-black hair, 
And his hand was glewit until the haft of his 

swerd sue scharp and trew, 
Bot the blade was broke, and on the grund it lay 

in pieces two. 

He streiket was upon the garse, and it was red of 
blee, 

Wi' the drappyng of the ruddie blude that trinkUt 
doun his knee ; 

And his brunie bricht was dintit sair, and heart in 
pieces ten, 

O, nevir was a knicht sae hackit by armis of mor- 
tal men. 

Thay sayit to raise him, bot alace, thai culd not 

muve a limm ; 
But heavie as the lead he lay, that Captaine dark 

and brym ; 
And his eye was luik, and fiersUe fell, and his hand 

was rased a lite, 
Albeit no lyf was in the corps of that cauld paly 

knighte. 

Then did thay leave him on that spot to rot and fal 

away. 
And thay put na stane upon his held, and on his 

corps nae clay. 
For thay had lerit in ferly wise that hindernicht I 

re4e. 
That dark Syr Hew, by felon means, did make his 

brither bleed. 



AND HAVE I GAZED? 



AND HAVE I GAZED? 

And have I gazed on this bright form 
While it was fast decaying ? 
And have I looked on these pale lips 
While ghastly death and woman's love 
Thereon with smiles were playing ? 
And do I see that lustrous eye 
Now quenched in hopeless night ? 
And was that feebly-murmured sigh 
Thy spirit's heavenward flight ? 

A moment since that eye was bright, 

A moment since it beamed on me, 

And now that lovely orb of light 

]s fixed on dull vacuity ; 

That bosom throbbed, that cheek was waraa. 

And in that round and polished arm 

The thin, blue veins were filled with life ; 

Now motionless and pale they lie ; 

Sad, beauteous wrecks of that stern strife 

In which a soul escaped on high ! 

Can I forget thy sad, sweet smile. 

Thy last, thy long, impassioned look ? 

Can I forget the last farewell 

It then so fondly took ? 

O, no ! — methinks thy lips still seem ' 

That smile of deepest love to beam, 

And these eyes, that now calmly sleep 

Beneath their half-closed, thin, transparent covers, 

Have all the lustre in their slumber deep 

They had in life, and proud dominion keep 

With light and sunshine over hearts and lovers. 

Vain thought ! Imagination's hollow trick 

To wean the heart from brooding o'er its sorrow, 



SHE IS NOT DEAD. 197 

Away ! Death's blighting dews have fallen thick 
On that dear maiden's pale and bloodless cheek. 
She smiled to-day ; some gentle words did speak, 
But nor one smile nor syllable will break 
The silence of to-morrow ! 

Feast, feast mine eyes on happiness forelore. 

Banquet on loveliness that hath not died, 

A beauty slumbers there as heretofore, 

A soul made to be deified. 

What though the rose, like coward base, hath fled 

From this cold cheek ! the lily still is there ; 

And mark how its pure white is softly spread, 

"Where not one vagrant rose shall dare 

Again to blossom on this maiden's cheek. 

Or its bright innocence with shame to streak. 



SHE IS NOT DEAD. 

She is not dead, — O, do not say she's dead ! 
Good friends, she lives ! what though the rose hath 

fled 
From her sweet face, doth not the lily there 
As beautiful a form and semblance bear ? 
Good friends, I say she lives ! her beauty lives ! 
And death destroys all loveliness of hue ; 
And were she dead, that lustre life but gives, 
From her, methinks, would have evanished too. 

Good friends, join with me, — do but give me space 

To feast upon the beauties of this face. 

She lives in death, she triumphs in the tomb, 

And, like a grave's flower, springs in fresher bloom 

The nearer it is planted to the dead ! 

Raise, raise a little more her drooping head ; 



198 SHE IS NOT DEAD. 

Her bosom heaves not, — 'tis like marble, white, 
And, like it, cold. But mark how exquisite 
And finely fashioned is this pale, stiff arm 
Which sleeps upon it ; touch it, it will not harm. 
No, not one finger moves ; they're locked in sleep, 
And very cold withal ; pray do not weep. 
Else I would weep too, that I could not break 
Her pleasant slumbers for your pity's sake. 

Good friends, I pray withdraw that veil once more, 
And say, is she not lovely as before ; 
Hath not this brow, this cheek, this neck, this arm, 
And this fair body, all some goodly charm 
Hovering around them, though the soul is gone 
On some far pilgrimage from this bright one ? 
Men say this maiden loved me, — simple me. 
Even from the cradle and sweet infancy. 
Till we had learned speech to speak our loves 
As others do, by streams and shaded groves ; 
But that is false in part, for never word 
Of love from either lip by us was heard ; 
The tongue is false and cogging, but the eye, 
The vanishing, rosy smile, speak faithfully. 
Yes, Love beneath these cold lids did repair, 
As to a crystal palace, there to blend 
His essence with the lights they did defend ; 
And when they oped their portals, what a light 
Poured from the worlds they hid ! Two bright, 
All-radiant worlds, — -two stars of living fire. 
Having joint sway and majesty entire 
Within their fair domains and beauteous spheres, 
And gemmed -svith diamonds like to dropping tears, 
And Love was there enshrined, and laughed 

through 
The pensive glories of these eyes so blue. 



SWEET EAKLSBURN, ETC. 199 



SWEET EARLSBURN, BLITHE EARLS- 
BURN. 

Sweet Earlsburn, blithe Earlsburn, 

jVline own, my native stream, 
My heart grows young again, while thus 

On thy gi^een banks I di-eam. 
Yes, dream ! in sooth I can no more, 

For as thy murmurs roll, 
They wake the ancient melodies 

That stirred my infant soul. 

I've told thee, one by one, the thoughts — 

Strange, shapeless forms were they — 
That hung around me fearfully 

In childhood's dreamy day. 
And still thy mystic music spake. 

Dimly articulate, 
Yielding meet answer to the dreams 

That shadowed fbi-th my fate. 

I've wept by thee, a sorrowing child ; 

I've sported, mad with glee ; 
And still thou wert the only one 

That seemed to care for me ; 
For in whatever mood I came 

To wander by thy brim. 
Thy murmurs were most musical, 

Soul-soothing as a hymn. 

I've wandered far in other lands, 

And mixed with stranger men, 
But still my heart untravelled sought 

Repose within thy glen. 
The pictures of my memory 

Were fresh as they were limned. 
Nor change of scene, nor lapse of years, 

Their lustre ever dimmed. 



200 BEGONE, BEGONE, THOU TRUANT TEAR. 



BEGONE, BEGONE, THOU TRUANT 
TEAR. 

Begone, begone, thou truant tear, 

That trembles on my cheek, 
And far away be borne the sigh 

That more than words can speak. 

And cease, my merry harp, to wake 

The song of former days. 
And perish all the minstrel lyre 

That framed these happy lays. 

She loves me not who woke these strains, 
Then wherefore should they be ? 

True, she doth smile as she was wont, 
But doth she smile on me ? 

Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends 

When listening to my song, 
Nor do her passion-moving lips 

The trembhng notes prolong. 

Time was, indeed, when she would hang 

Enamoured on my theme ; 
But ah ! that happy time hath fled, 

And vanished like a dream. 

Peace, thou proud heart, and prate no more ! 

Thy sun of joy hath set. 
And dark and starless is the sky 

The troubadour has met. 



THE patriot's DEATH. 201 



O, BABBLE NOT TO ME, GRAY EILD. 

O, BABBLE not to me, Gray Eild, 

Of days and years misspent, 
Unless thou canst again restore 

Youth's scenes of merriment. 

Canst thou recall to me the heart 
That bounded sorrow-free, • 

Or wake to life the lovely one 
Who stole that heart from me ? 

Canst thou by magic art compel 

The shrouded dead to rise, 
And all the friends of early years 

Again to glad my eyes ? 

Canst thou renew Hope's flattering dream. 

That promised joys in store, 
Or bid me taste again those few, 

Alas ! that are no more ? 

Then babble not to me, Gray Eild, 

Of days and years misspent. 
Unless thou canst again restore 

Youth's dreams of sweet content. 



SONNET.— THE PATRIOT'S DEATH. 

His eye did lose-its lustre for a space. 
And a bright color mantled o'er his face ; 
His Hps did tremulous move, as if to speak, 
But no words came. On his brow did break 
The heavy and cold dew of coming death ; 



202 PALE DAUGHTER OF THE NIGHT. 

And thick and difficult had grown his breath. 
A moment's space, it was no more, for soon 
Calmness and sunshine did again illume 
His stern-resolved features, and a glow 
Of deep but bridled wrath sat on hi^ brow ; 
But it frowned not, nor did his piercing eye 
Speak aught that wronged his proud heart's privacy, 
Fear did not there abide, nor yet did rage 
Gleam in its fire. Far nobler moods assuage 
Its potent brilliance and restrain its ire ; 
It nothing knew but the brave patriot's fire. 
Who staketh life to grasp at liberty, 
And dies, rejoicing that he has lived free, 
Well knomng that his death to other men 
Will be a gathering call, — a watchword, when 
The brave on freedom look in after times. 



SONNET.— PALE DAUGHTER OF THE 
NIGHT. 

O THOU most beautiful and meek-eyed virgin, 
Pale daughter of the night, how tempest-tost 
And wildered in these thickening clouds thou art, 
Yet smiling ever with so sweet a face 
Of love around thee, that in truth, methinks, 
Even at these clouds thou canst not take offence. 
Knowing thy glory and majestic form 
Cannot be sullied ; and the innocent. 
Even like to thee, with undiminished beam. 
Burst through the clouds of envious calumny, 
To shame the tongues, and give the lie to thoughts, 
Having no saintlike charity ! O, yes, like thee, 
Thus shine on darkness with forgiving look. 
For Innocence and Mercy are twin-born ! 



SILVERY HAIRS. 203 



SONNET.— THE HAND'S WILD GRASP. 

The hand's wild grasp, the dark flash of the eye, 
Like the troubled gleam of a winter's sky, 
The bosom's bitter throb, the half-choked sigh, 
When the parting hour is hurrying nigh. 

Are known but to those who love. 
Sad is that fateful hour, and pale the cheek. 
And fain the tongue would, but it cannot, speak. 

And the cold Hps will not move. 

O, could the eyes find tears kind hope hath sprung, 

And could the lips but syllable a sound. 

Albeit to wail, the heart with passion wrung 

Would to its prisoned feeUng thus give vent ; 

But in an icy circle they are bound, 

And when that breaks, the heart's last chord is rent ! 



SONNET.— SILVERY HAIRS. 

Ha ! on my brow, what straggling, silvery hairs 

Be ye who curl and mingle in the throng 

Of a more youthful race ? Beshrew my heart ! 

Ye have a frosty aspect right severe. 

And come to babble nonsense of the times 

That once have been, and of the days that speed 

With noiseless pinions o'er me, — of the grave 

That hungers for me, and impatiently 

Awaits ray coming. Softly now, fair sirs, 

Emblems of frail mortality ; in sooth, 

Are ye the fruits of time, or those chance weeds 

That sorrow's sullen flood hath left to mock 

The broken heart that it hath desolated. 

And killed each bud of hope that blossomed there ? 



204 LADY MARGARET. 



LADY MARGARET. 

I LAY within the chamber lone 
Where the Lady Margaret died ; 

And wildly there the midnight wind 
Like hapless spirit sighed. 

I mused upon that peerless One, 

So beautiful of blee ; 
And marvelled much of her sad death's 

Time-hallowed mystery : 
For as a rainbow-tinted cloud, 

Smote by a gentle wind, 
Sails o'er the deep, slow-paced and proud, 

Yet leaves no trace behind ; 
Nor can conjecture index true 

Where one bright shadow lay, 
Till all has melted from the view, 

In nothingness away ; 
So did that lady vanish quite. 

In her sad latter day ! 

It is a hundred years agone 

Since living limb did rest 
Within that chamber's chilling gloom, 

And rose a living guest ! 
But many a brave and stately corpse 

Of lord and lady tall 
Have here lain cold and motionless 

Ere their proud funeral : 
For no sound or sight, however strange, 

Can lifeless flesh appall. 
But ancient crones have noted well 

Of each corpse that lay there, 
That writhen was each ghastly limb. 
The eyelid opened wide and grim 

Each cold, dead eye did glare. 



LADY MAKGAKET. 205 

It is a hundred years agone, 

Even on this very night, 
Since, in this unsunned room, and lone, 

Reposed that lady bright, — 
A miracle of loveliness, — 

A very beam of light. 
Blithe dawns the morn, her bridal morn, 

And merry minstrels play ; 
The brisk bridegroom, and all his kin, 
Came trooping with a joyous din. 

In seemliest array. ' 
The bridegroom came, but ah ! the bride 

Was missing and away ! 
And of that gentle lady's fate 

None wot of till this day ! 
And, since that night, all tenantless 

Of life hath been her room ; 
Till even I did madly break 

Upon its sacred gloom. 

It was a dull and eerie night 

Of wind and bitter sleet. 
When first that tomb-like chamber rung 

With the echoes of my feet ; 
And on its narrow casements hard 

The hail and raia did beat. 
While through each crazed and time-worn 
chink 

The hollow wind did moan, 
As if a hundred harps were strung 

Within that chamber lone. 
And every minstrel there had been 

Some disembodied one ! 

But it is a lofty chamber, 

And passing rich withal, 
When on its gilded mouldings huge 

The quivering moonbeams fall. 
And ever and anon, in sooth, 

Even on that stormy night. 



206 LADY MARGARET. 

Would spme pale, tempest-shattered ray 
Through the dim windows find its way, — 

A very thread of Hght, — 
To glimmer on the needlecraft 

And curious tapestry 
Which moulder on the walls, — brave scrolls 

Of dim antiquitye, 
Embodying many a quaint device 

Of love and chivalrye. * 

O, it is a lofty chamber ! 

But dull it is to see, 
In the dead pause of the deep midnight, 

When the fagots dying be, 
And naught but embers red 

Throw round a dubious gleam. 
Like the indistinct forthshadowings 

Of a sad and unquiet dream. 
Then suddenly to wake from sleep. 

To gaze round that dim room. 
We're sure to feel as one whose pulse 

Again beats in the tomb. 
Swelling with idle life and strength 

Within its stifling gloom. 

'Twas even so that I awoke 

(Sure awake I could not be), 
Though with the lifelikeness of waking truths 

Were all things clothed to me. 
'Twas in terror I awoke 

Within that chamber dim ; 
The sweat-drop burst on my cold brow, 

Dull horror numbed each limb. 
In agony my temples beat, 

Life only throbbed there ; 
And creeping cold, like living things, 

Stood up each clammy hair. 
It seemed as if a spell from hell 

Were drugged deep with the air ; 



LADY MARGARET. 207 

Yet wherefore should I fear 

To me was all unknown ; 
For that chamber was, as heretofore, 

Dim, desolate, and lone. 
And I heard the angry winter's wind 

Still shrilly whistling by ; 
I heard it stir the leafless trees. 

And heard their faint reply. 
While the ticking clock, right audibly, 

Did note time's passing sigh, 
And, like some dusky banner broad, 

Loud flapping in the breeze. 
The faded arras on the walls 

Sung its own exequies. 

Then, then, methought I heard a foot; 

It sounded soft and still ; 
And slowly then it died away, 

Like echo on the hill. 
Or like the far, faint murmuring 

Of a lone hermit rill. 
Again that footstep sounded near, 

Again it died away ; 
And then I heard it gliding past 

The couch on which I lay ! 
I raised my head, and wildly gazed 

Into the glimmering gloom ; 
But nothing save the embers red. 
That on the spacious hearth were spread, 

I saw within that room. 
And all was dusky round. 

Save where those embers shed 
A pale and sickly gleam of light 

On the Lady Margaret's bed. 

On the couch where I did lie 

That sickly light did shine 
With one bright flash, when, as a voice 

Did cry, '♦ a^ebenge is mine !" 



208 LADY MARGARET. 

Another answered straight, 

And said, ♦♦ E\)B |)our is come ! " 
1 listened,^but these voices twain 

For evermore were dumb. 
But again the still, soft foot 

Came creeping stealthy on ; 
And then, O God ! mine ear upcaught 

A deep and stifled groan. 
It echoed through the lofty room 

So loud, so clear, and shrill, 
Methinks even to my dying day 

I'll hear that echo still. 
Again that deep and smothered groan, — 

That rattle in the throat, — 
That awful sob of struggling life, — 

On my strained ear-strings smote. 
In desperate fear I madly strove 

To start from that witched bed. 
But on my breast there seemed up-piled 

• A mountain-weight of lead. 
And when I strove to speak aloud, 

To dissipate that spell, 
I shuddei'ed at the shapeless sounds 

That from mine own lips fell. 
'Twas then, full filled with fear, I shut 

Mine eyes t'escape the gaze 
Of that dim chamber's arras'd walls. 

With their tales of other days, 
Lest ghastly shapes should start from them 

To sport in horrid glee 
Before my tortured sight — dark scenes 

Of their life's tragedy. 
And like exulting fiends proclaim 

How black man's heart can be. 

But visionless scant space I lay 
With throbbing downshut lid. 

When o'er my brow and cheek, dear Lord ! 
A clammy coldness slid. 



LADY MARGARET. 209 

O'er brow and cheek I felt it slide ; 

And, like a frozen rill, 
The blood waxed thick within my veins, 

Grew pulseless, and stood still. 
O'er brow and cheek I felt it slide. 

So clammy and so cold, 
Like the touch of one whose lifeless limbs 

In winding-sheet are rolled. 
Straight upward did I look, and then 

From the thick obscurity — 
O, horrible ! — there downward gleamed 

■ Two glittering eyes on me. 
From the ceiling of that lofty room 

These glittering eyes did stare ; 
They rested on me, under them, 

With a fixed and fearful glare. 
O, never human eyes did flash 

So wild and strange a light. 
As these twin eyes straight downward poured 

On that unhappy night. 
Their beams shot down like lances long, 

Unutterably bright. 
And still these glittering, living lights 

Did steadfast gaze on me ; 
And each fibre of my heart shrunk up 

Beneath their sorcery. 
Still, still they gleam, — their searching glance 

Has pierced into my brain. 
I feel the stream of fire pass through, 

I feel its cureless pain ! 

One moment seemed to pass, and then 

My vision waxed more clear. 
And livelier to my spell- fraught sight 

These blazing eyes appear. 
As with unholy light they lit 

A pallid cheek and brow, 
And quivered on a Hp as cold 

And blenched as driven snow. 
14 



210 LADY MARGARET. 

And I did gaze on that pale brow, 

And on that lovesome cheek ; 
I watched those cold, part-opened lips,— 

Methought that they would speak ; 
But motionless, and void of life 

As monumental stone, 
Was every feature, save those eyes, 

That evennore outshone 
With a fearful lustre, that to life 

On earth is never known. 

That face was all a deadly white, 

Yet beautiful to see ; 
And indistinctly floated down 

Its body's symmetry. 
In ample folds and wimples quaint 

Of gorgeous drapery. 
And gleaming forth, Hke spots of snow 

On a sad colored field, 
A small, white hand on either side 

Was partially revealed. 
O'er me a deeper horror, — 

A marvellous rush of light, — 
Long-perished memories returned 

Upon that fearful night. 
I heard the sounds of other times, 

The tales of other years. 
Reacted were their sharpest crimes ; 

Outpoured again their tears. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 

When the Second Edition of Motherwell's Poems was 
published, in 1847, it was stated in the Preface that the 
fi-agments of poetry which he had left behind liim in 
manuscript, and which were not included in that volume, 
might be given to the public at some future day, should 
any encouragement be offered for pursuing such a course. 
This the Publisher has now determined to do; but be- 
fore taking such a step, he resolved to submit the pieces 
in question to the critical scn^tiny of Motherwell's old 
friend and poetical ally, Mr. William Kennedy, who 
chanced to be in Scotland at the time. The reader will, 
therefore, be good enough to understand that these Poems 
have been selected by Mr. Kennedy, and are published 
under his express authority. The Publisher is gratified 
in being able to make this ' statement, as it relieves him 
from a responsibility which he feels that it would not be 
becoming in him to incur. 



O THAT THIS WEARY WAR OF LIFE ! 

THAT this weary war of life 

With me were o'er, 
Its eager cry of woe and strife 

Heard never more ! 
I've fronted the red battle field 

Mine own dark day ; 

1 fain wonld fling the helmet, shield, 

And sword away. 
I strive not now for victory — 
That wish hath fled ; 



212 CHOICE OF DEATH. 

My prayer is now to numbered be 

Among the dead — 
All that I loved, alas ! — alas ! 

Hath perished ! 
They tell me 'tis a glorious thing, 

This wearing war; 
They tell me joy crowns suffering 

And bosom scar. 
Such speech might never pass the lips 

That could unfold 
How shrinketh heart when sorrow nips 

Affections old : 
When they who cleaved to us are dust. 

Why live to moan ? 
Better to meet a felon thrust 

Than strive alone — 
Better than loveless palaces 

The churchyard stone ! 



CHOICE OF DEATH. 

Might I, without offending, choose 
The death that I would die, 

I'd fall, as erst the Templar fell, 
Aneath a Syrian sky. 

Upon a glorious plain of war, 
The banners floating fair, 

My lance and fluttering pennoncel 
Should mai'shal heroes there ! 

Upon the solemn battle-eve, 
With prayer to be forgiven, 

I'd arm me for a righteous fight, 
Imploring peace of Heaven ! 



LIKE MIST OX A MOUNTAIN TOP. 213 

High o'er the thunders of the charge 

Should wave my sable plume, 
And where the day was lost or won, 

There should they place my tomb ! 



LIKE MIST ON A MOUNTAIN TOP 
BROKEN AND GRAY. 

Like mist on a mountain top broken and gray, 
The dream of my early day fleeted away : 
Now the evening of life, with its shadows, steals on, 
And memory reposes on years that are gone ! 

Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and 

tears — 
A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears — 
Though checker'd, and sad, and mistaken you've 

been. 
Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen ! 

With those long-vanished hours fair visions are 

flown. 
And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and 

lone ; 
In vain would I ask of the future to bring 
The verdure that gladden'd my life in its spring ! 

I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew — 
The pine-covered hill where the heather-bell blew — 
The trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring 

sweet, 
The wild flowers that gleamed on the red deer's 

retreat ! 

I look for the mates full of ardor and truth, 
Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of 
youth — 



214 SONG. 

They passed ere the morning of hope knew its 

close — 
They left me to sleep where our fathers repose ! 

Where is now the wide hearth with the big fagot's 

blaze, 
Where circled the legend and song of old. days ? 
The legend's forgotten, the hearth is grown cold, 
The home of my childhood to strangers is sold ! 

Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way, 
I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey 
Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore, 
Whose feast of young smiles I may never share 
more! 



SONG. 

If to thy heart I were as near 

As thou art near to mine, 
I'd hardly care though a' the year 
Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear, 

Nae sun on earth suld shine ! 

Twin starnies are thy glancin' een — 

A warld they'd licht and mair — 
And gin that ye be ray Christine, 
Ae blink to me ye'il spare, my dear, 
Ae blink to me ye'll spare ! 

My leesome May I've wooed too lang- 

Aneath the trystin' tree, 
I've sung till a' the j^lantins rang, 
Wi' lays o' love for thee, my dear, 

Wi' lays o' love for thee. 



TRUE WOMAN. 215 

The dew-draps glisten on the green, 

The laverocks lilt on liigh, 
We'll forth and doun the loan, Christine, 
And kiss when nane is nigh, my dear, 

And kiss when nane is niffh ! 



TRUE WOMAN. 

No quaint conceit of speech, 
No golden, minted phrase — 

Dame Nature needs to teach 
To echo Woman's praise ; 

Pure love and truth unite 

To do thee, Woman, right! 

She is the faithful mirror 

Of thoughts that brightest be — 
Of feelings without error, 

Of matchless constancie ; 
When art essays to render 

More glorious Heaven's bow — 
To paint the virgin sj^lendor 

Of fresh-fallen mountain snow — 
New fancies will I find, 
To laud true Woman's mind. 

No words can lovelier make 

Virtue's all-lovely name, 
No change can eveV shake 

A woman's virtuous fame : 
The moon is forth anew. 

Though envious clouds endeavor 
To screen her fron* our view — 

More beautiful than ever: 
So, through detraction's haze, 
True Woman shines alwaies. 



216 FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE. 

The many-tinted rose, 
Of gardens is the queen, 

The perfumed Violet knows 
No peer where she is seen, 

The flower of woman-kind 

Is aye a gentle mind. 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE. 

Oft have I sighed for pleasure past, 

Oft wept for secret smarting — 
But far the heaviest drop of all 
That ever on my cheek did fall 
The tear was at our parting. 

Why did our bosoms ever beat 
Harmonious with each other, 
If truest sympathies of soul 
Might broken be, perhaps the whole 
Concentred in another ? 

My fear it was when other scenes. 
With other tongues, and faces, 

Should greet thee, thou would'st haply be 

Forgetful of our amity 
In old frequented places. 

'Tis even so — the thrall of love. 

Past ties to thee seem common — 
Well, hearts jnust yield to beauty rare. 
And proud-souled friendship hardly dare 
Contest the prize jvith woman ! 

Old friend, adieu ! I blame thee not, 

Since fair guest fills thy bosom — 
Thy smiling love may flattered be 



HAE YE SEEN MY AIX TRUE LUVE. 217 

Our bonds to know, and feel that she 
Thy pow'r had to unloose them ! 

Since thou surrenderest all for her, 

May she, with faith unshaken, 
Place every thought on thee alone, 
While he who Friendship's dream hath known. 

Must from that dream awaken ! 



AND HAE YE SEEN MY AIN TRUE 
LUVE? 

' And hae ye seen my ain true luve 
As ye cam thro' the fair ? 
Ae blink o' her's worth a' the goud 
And gear that glistens there ! ' — 
* And how suld I ken your true luve 
Frae ither lasses braw 
That trysted there, busked out like queens, 
Wi' pearlins knots and a' ? ' 

' Ye may ken her by her snaw-white skin, 

And by her waist sae sma' ; 
Ye may ken her by her searchin' ee. 

And hair like glossy craw ; 
Ye may ken herl)y the hinnie mou, 

And by the rose-dyed cheek, 
But best o' a' by smiles o' licht 

That luve's ain language speak ! 

' Ye may ken her by her fairy step — 

As she trips up the street. 
The very pavement seems to shine 

Aneath her genty feet ! 
Ye may ken her by the jewell'd rings 

Upon her fingers sma'. 



218 THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 

Yet better by the dignity 

That she ghdes through them a'. 

' And ye may ken her by the voice — 

The music o' her tongue — 
Wha heard her speak incontinent 

Wad think an angel sung ! 
, And such seems she to me, and mair, 

That wale o' woman's charms — 
It's bliss to press her dear wee mou 

And daut her in my arms ! ' 



THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 

Lady, dar'st thou seek the shore 
Which ne'er woman's footstep bore; — 
Where beneath yon rugged steep. 
Restless rolls the darksome deep ? 

Dar'st thou, though thy blood run chill, 
Thither speed at midnight still — 
And when horror rules the sky, 
Raise for lover lost thy cry ? 

Dar'st thou at that ghastiest hour 
Breathe the word of magic })0wer — 
Word that breaks the mermaid's spell, 
Which false lover knows too well V 

When affrighted spectres rise 
'Twixt pale floods and ebon skies, 
Dar'st thou, reft of maiden fear, 
Bid the AVater- Witch appear ? 

When upon the sallow tide 
Pearly elfin boat does glide, 



CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 219^ 

When the mystic oar is heard, 
Like the wing of baleful bird — . 
Dar'st thou with a voice of might 
Call upon thy spell-bound knight ? 

When the shallop neareth land, 
Dar'st thou, with thy snow-white hand, 
Boldly on the warrior's breast 
Place the Cross by Churchman blest ? — 
When is done this work of peril. 
Thou hast won proud Ulster's Earl ! 



CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 

The reader will find a brief, but instructive, account of 
this relic of Baronial times — which, at different periods, 
has been written Cruxtoun, Croestoun, and Crookston — in 
a work entitled " Views in Renfrewshire," by Philip A. 
Ramsay, one of the Poet's earliest and truest friends. 
Of the objects of antiquity remaining in Renfrewshire, 
Cruxtoun Castle, according to Mr. Ramsay, is, in point 
of interest, second only to the Abbey of Paisley. " The 
ruins of this castle," he observes, "occupy the summit of 
a wooded slope, overhanging the south bank of the White 
Cart, about three miles southeast from Paisley, and close 
to the spot where that river receives the Waters of a 
stream called the Levern. The scenery in this neighbor- 
hood is rich and varied, and although the eminence on 
which the Castle stands is but gentle, it is so commanding 
that our great Novelist has made Queen Mary remark, 
that, ' from thence you may see a prospect wide as from 
the peaks of Schehalliou.' To Cruxtoun Castle, then 
the property of Darnley, Mary's husband, tradition tells 
us, the royal bride was conducted, soon after the celebra- 
tion of their nuptials at Edinburgh." 

Thou gray and antique tower, 
Receive a wandei'er of the lonely night, 
Whose moodful sprite 
Rejoices at this witching time to brood 



220 CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 

Amid thy shattered strength's dim solitude ! 

It is a fear-fraught hour — 

A death-like stillness reigns around, 

Save the wood-skirted river's eerie sound, 

And the faint rustling of the trees that shower 

Their brown leaves on the stream. 

Mournfully gleaming in the moon's pale beam : 

O ! I could dwell forever and forever 

In such a place as this, with such a night ! 

When, o'er thy waters and thy waving woods, 

The moonbeams sympathetically quiver, 

And no ungentle thing on thee intrudes, 

And every voice is dumb, and every object bright ! 

Forgive, old Cruxtoun,.if, with step unholy, 

Unwittingly a pilgrim should profane 

The regal quiet, the august repose, 

Which o'er thy desolated summit reign — 

When the fair moon's abroad, at evening's close — 

Or interrupt that touching melancholy — 

Image of fallen grandeur — softly thrown 

O'er every crumbling and moss-bedded stone. 

And broken arch, and pointed turret hoar, 

Which speak a tale of times that are no more ; 

Of triumphs they have seen. 

When Minstrel-craft, in praise of Scotland's Queen, 

Woke all the magic of the harp and song, 

And the rich, varied, and fantastic lore 

Of those romantic days was carped, I ween. 

Amidst the pillared pomp of lofty hall, 

By many a jewelled throng 

Of smiling dames and soldier barons bold ; 

When the loud cheer of generous wassail rolled 

From the high dais to where the warder strode. 

Proudly, along the battlemented wall, 

Beneath his polished armor's ponderous load ; 

Who paused to hear, and carolled back again. 

With martial glee, the jocund vesper strain : 

Thou wilt forgive ! Mine is no peering eye, 

That seeks, with glance malign, the suffering part, 



CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 221 

Thereby, with hollow show of sympathy, 
To smite again the poof world-wounded heart : 
No — thy misfortunes win from him a sigh 
"Whose soul towers, like thyself, o'er each lewd 
passer-by. 

Relique of earlier days, 

Yes, dear thou art to me ! — 

And beauteous, marvellously, 

The moonlight strays 

Where banners glorious floated on thy walls — 

Clipping their ivied honors with its thread 

Of half-angelic light : 

And though o'er thee Time's wasting dews have 

shed 
Their all consuming blight. 
Maternal moonlight falls 
On and around thee full of tenderness. 
Yielding thy shattered frame pure love's divine 

caress. 

Ah me ! thy joy of youthful lustihood 
Is gone, old Cruxtoun ! Ever, ever gone ! 
Here hast thou stood 
In nakedness and sorrow, roofless, lone, 
For many a weary year — and to the storm 
Hast bared thy wasted form — 
Braving destruction, in the attitude 
Of reckless desolation. Like to one 
Who in this world no longer may rejoice. 
Who watching by Hope's grave 
With stern delight, impatient is to brave 
The worst of coming ills — So, Cruxtoun ! thou 
Rear'st to the tempest thy undaunted brow ; 
When Heaven's red coursers flash athwart the sky — 
Startling the guilty as they thunder by — 
Then raisest thou a wild, unearthly hymn, 
Like death-desiring bard whose star hath long been 
dim ! 



222 CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 

Nei>lef'ted though thou art, 
Sad remnant of old Scotland's worthier days, 
When independence had its chivalrie, 
There still is left one heart 
To mourn for thee ! 
And though, alas ! thy venerable form 
Must bide the buffet of each vagrant storm, 
One spirit yet is left to linger here 
And pay the tribute of a silent tear ; 
Wlio in his memory registers the dints 
That Time hath graved upon thy sorrowing brow *, 
Who of thy woods loves the Autumnal tints, 
Whose voice — perforce indignant — mingles now 
In all thy lamentations — with the tone, 
Not of these paltry times, but of brave years long 
gone. 

Nor is't the moonshine clear, 

Leming on tower, and tree, and silent stream, 

Nor hawthorn blossoms which in Spring appear. 

Most prodigal of perfume — nor the sweets 

Of wood-flowers, peeping up at the blue sky ; 

Nor the mild aspect of blue hills which greet 

The eager vision — blessed albeit they seem. 

Each with its charm particular — To my eye. 

Old Cruxtoun hath an interest all its own — 

From many a cherished, intersociate thought — 

From feelings multitudinous well known 

To souls in whom the patriot fire hatii wrought 

Sublime remembrance of their country's fame : 

Radiant thou art in the ethereal flame — 

The lustrous splendor — which those feelings shed 

O'er many a scene of this my father-land ! 

Thou, gray magician, with thy potent wand, 

Evok'st the shades of the illustrious dead ! 

The mists dissolve — up rise the slumbering years — 

On come the knightly riders cap-a-pie — 

The herald calls — hark, to the clash of spears ! 

To Beauty's Queen each hero bends the knee ; 



CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 223 

Dreams of the Past, how exquisite ye be — 
Offspring of heavenly faith and rare antiquity ! 

Light feet have trod 

The soft, green, flowering sod 

That girdles thy baronial strength, and traced, 

All gracefully, the labyrinthine dance ; 

Young hearts discoursed with many a passionate 

glance. 
While rose and fell the Minstrel's thrilling strain — 
(AVho, in this iron age, might sing in vain — 
His largesse coarse neglect, and mickle pain !) 
Waste are thy chambers tenantless, which long 
Echoed the notes of gleeful minstrelsie — 
Notes once the prelude to a tale of Avrong, 
Of Royalty and love. — Beneath yon tree — 
Now bare and blasted — so our annals tell — 
The martyr Queen, ere that her fortunes knew 
A darker shade than cast her favorite yew. 
Loved Darnley passing well — 
Loved him with tender woman's generous love, 
And bade farewell awhile to courtly state 
And pageantry for yon o'ershadowing grove — 
For the lone river's banks where small birds sing — 
Their little hearts with summer joys elate — 
Where tall broom blossoms, flowers profusely 

spring ; 
There he, the most exalted of the land. 
Pressed, with the grace of youth, a Sovereign's 

peerless hand. 

And she did die ! — 

Die as a traitor — in the brazen gaze 

Of her — a kinswoman and enemy — 

O well may such an act my soul amaze ! 

My country, at that hour, where slept thy sword ? 

AVhere was the high and chivalrous accord, 

To fling the avenging banner of our land, 

Like sheeted flame, forth to the winds of heaven ? 



224 ROLAND AND ROSABELLE. 

O sliame among the nations — thus to brook 
The damning stain to thy escutcheon given ! 
How could thy sons upon their mothers look, 
Degenerate Scotland ! heedless of the wail 
Of thy lorn Queen, in her captivity ! 
Unmov'd wert thou by all her bitter bale — 
Untouch'd by thought that she had go\erned thee — 
Hard was each heart and cold each powerful hand — 
No harnessed steed rushed panting to the fight ; 
O listless fell the lance when Mary laid 
Her head upon the block — and high in soul. 
Which lacked not then thy frugal sympathy, 
Died — in her widowed beauty, penitent — 
Whilst thou, by foul red-handed faction rent, 
Wert falsest recreant to sweet majesty ! 

'Tis past — she rests — the scaffold hath been swept, 
The headsman's guilty axe to rust consigned — 
But, Cruxtoun, while thine aged towers remain. 
And thy green umbrage wooes the evening wind — 
By noblest natures shall her woes be wept, 
Who shone the glory of thy festal day : 
Whilst aught is left of these thy ruins gray. 
They will arouse remembrance of the stain 
Queen Mary's doom hath left on History's page- 
Remembrance laden with reproach and pain. 
To those who make, like me, this pilgrimage ! 



ROLAND AND ROSABELLE. 

A TOMB by skilful hands is raised. 
Close to a sainted shrine. 

And there is laid a stalwart Knight, 
The last of all his Hne. 

Beside that noble monument, 
A Squire doth silent stand. 



ROLAND AND ROSABELLE. 225 

Leaning in pensive wise upon 
The eross-liilt of his brand. 

Around him peals the hannony 

Of friars at even-song, 
He notes them not, as passing by 

The hymning brothers throng : 
And he hath watched the monument 

Three weary nights and days, 
And ever on the marble cold 

Is fixed his steadfast gaze. 

" I pray thee, wakeful Squii'e, unfold " — 

Proud Rosabella* said — 
" The story of the warrior bold, 

Who in this tomb is laid ! " 
" A champion of the Cross was he " — 

The Squire made low reply — 
" And on the shore of Galilee, 

In battle did he die. 

" He bound me by a solemn vow, 

His body to convey 
Where lived his love — there rests it now, 

Until the judginent-day : 
And by his stone of record here, 

In loyalty I stand. 
Until I greet his leman dear — 

The Lady of the Land ! " 

" Fair stranger, I would learn of thee 
The gentle warrior's name. 
Who fighting fell at Galilee 

And won a deathless name ? " 
The Squire hath fixed an eye of light 
Full on the Lady tall — 
" Men called," he said, " that hapless Knight 
Sir Roland of the Hall ! 



15 



226 SONG. 

" His foot was foremost in the fray, 

And last to leave the field — 
A braver arm in danger's day 

Ne'er shivered lance on shield ! " 
" In death, what said he of his love — 

Thou faithful soldier tell ? " 
" Meekly he prayed to Him above 

For perjured Rosabelle." 

" Thy task is done — my course is run- 

(O fast her tears did fall !) 
I am indeed a perjured one — 

Dear Roland of the Hall !" 
Even as the marble cold and pale, 

Waxed Rosabella's cheek ; 
The faithful Squire resumed travail- 

The Lady's heart did break ! 



SONG. 

How I envy the ring that encircles thy finger ! — 

Dear daughter of beauty how happy were I 
If, by some sweet spell, like that ring, I might lin- 

At ease in the light of thy heart-thrilling eye ! 

I would joy in the music thy light pulse is making, 
I would press the soft cheek where the rose-buds 
unfold — 
I would rest on the brow where pure thought's ever 
waking, 
And lovingly glide through thy tresses of gold. 

On the ripe smiling lip which young Cupid is steep- 
ing 
In dews of love's day-dawn, I'd tenderly play — 



FOR BLITHER FIELDS, ETC 227 

And when in thy innocence, sweet, thou wert 
sleeping, 
I'd watch thee, and bless thee, and guard thee 
for aye ! 



FOE, BLITHER FIELDS AND BKAVER 
BOWERS. 

For blither fields and braver bowers 

The little bird, in Spring, 
Quits its old tree and wintry hold, 

With wanton mates to sing ; 
And yet awhile that wintry home 

To branch and twig may cling ; 
But wayward blast, or truant boy. 

May rend it soon away, 
And scatter to the heedless winds 

The toil of many a day — 
And where, when Winter comes, shall then 

The bird its poor head lay ? 

The moss, the down, the twisted grass, 

The slender wands that bound 
The dear warm nest, are parted now, 

Or scattered far around — 
Belike the woodman's axe hath felled 

The old tree to the ground ! 
And now keen Winter's wreathing snows 

O'er frozen nature lie — 
The sun forgets to warm the earth. 

Forgets to light the sky ; 
I fear me lest the wandering bird 

May, houseless, shivering, die ! 

Forgive me, Helen — thou art free 
To keep, or quit, the nest 



228 HOPE AND LOVE. 

I built for thee, and sheltered in 

The foliage of my breast, 
And fenced so well none other might 

Be harbor'd there as guest. 
Flee if thou wilt — if other love 

Thy fickle heart enfold, 
Thou'rt free to rove where fancy waves 

Her wand of fairy gold — 
But Helen, ere thou canst return, 

This bosom will be cold ! 



HOPE AND LOVE. 

Through life on journeying, by its thorny paths, 
Or pleasant ways — its rank green hemlock wastes, 
Or roseate bowers — in utter loneliness. 
Or .'mid the din of busy multitudes — 
Two babes of beauty linger near us still — 
Twin cherubim — that leave us not until 
We've passed the threshold of that crowded inn 
Which borders on Eternity ! One doth point. 
With gleaming eye and finger tremulous, 
To clefts in azure, where the sunbeams slumber 
On couch of vermeil dye and amethyst, 
Bordered with flowers that never know decay ; 
Where living fountains, cool and argentine. 
Trill on in measured cadence, night and morn : 
The other, with an eye of sweet regard, 
And voice the spirit of pure melody. 
Sheds o'er the darkest track some ray of gladness — 
To elevate the heart, and nerve the soul. 
With unslacked sinews, vigorously to brave 
The perils of the unattempted road : 
Love, gentle Love — one fellow pilgrim is — 
The other Hope — dear, never-dying Hope ! — 
And they to churle, as weU as keysour yield 
The tender ministerino; of faithful friends ! 



SONGE OF THE SCHIPPE. 229 



SONGE OF THE SCHIPPE. 

When surly windes and grewsome cloudes 

Are tilting in the sk) e, 
And every little star's abed, 

That glimmered cheerilie — 
O then 'tis meet for mariners 

To steer righte carefulie ! 
For mermaides sing the schippman's dirge, 

Where ocean vveddes the skye — 
A blessing on our gude schippe as lustilie she sailes, 
O what can match our gude schippe when blest with 



Blythely to the tall topmast, 

Up springs the sailor boy — 
Could he but hail a distant port, 
How he would leap with joy ! 
By bending yard and rope he swings — 

A fair-haired child of glee — 
But oh ! a cruel sawcie wave 
Hath swept him in the sea ! 
There's sadness in the gude schippe that breasts the 

waters wild, 
Though safe ourselves, we'll think with tears of our 
poor ocean-child ! 

Our mainmast now is clean cut downe, 

The tackle torn away — 
And thundering o'er the stout schippe's side, 

The seas make fearful play ! 
Yet cheerlie cheerlie on we go. 

Though fierce the tempest raves, 
We know the hand unseen that guides 

The schippe o'er stormie waves ! 



230 HE STOOD ALONE. 

We'll all still stand by the old scliippe as should a 

trusty crew, 
For He who rules the wasting waves may some port 

bring to view ! 

Our gude schippe is a shapely schippe — 

A shapely and a stronge — 
Our hearts sang to our noble schippe, 

As she careered along ! 
And fear ye not my sturdy mates 

Though sayles and masts be riven — 
We know, while drifting o'er the deep, 
Above there's still a haven ! 
Though sorely we're benighted upon the weltering 

foam. 
The sun may rise upon the morn and guide us to a 
home ! 



HE STOOD ALONE. 

He stood alone in an unpitying crowd — 

His mates fell from him, as the grub-worms drop 

From the green stalk that once had nourished them, 

But now is withered and all rottenness 

Because it gave such shelter. Pleasure's train — 

The hght- winged tribes that seek the sunshine only — 

No more endeavored from his eye to win 

The smile of approbation. Grief and Care 

Stalked forth upon the theatre of his heart. 

In many a gloomy and misshapen guise, 

Till of the glories of his earlier self 

The world, his base and hollow auditory, 

Left but a ghastly phantom. As a tree, 

A goodly tree — that stricken is and wasted. 

By elemental conflicts — falls at last, 



Cupid's banishmente. 231 

Even in the fulness of its branching honors, 
Prostrate before the storm — yet majestic 
In its huge downfall, so, at last, fell he ! 



CUPID'S BANISHMENTE. 

What recke I now of comely dame ? 
What care I now for fair pucelle ? 

Unscorchde I meet their glance of flame, 
Unmovede I mark their bosoms swel, 
For Love and I have sayde farewel ! 

Go, prattlynge fool ! — go, wanton wilde ! 
Seke thy fond mother this to tel — 

That loveliest maydes on me have smyled, 
And that I stoutly did rebel. 
And bade thee and thy arts farewel ! 

With me thy tyrant reigne is o'er, 

Thou hear'st thy latest warninge knel ; 

Speed, waywarde urchin, from my doore,- 
My hert to thee gives no handsel, 
For thou and I have sworne farewel ! 

So trimme thy bow, and fleche thy shafte, 
And peer where sillie gallants dwel, 

On them essaye thy archer crafte, 
No more on me thy bolte schal tel — 
False Love and I have sunge farewel ! 



232 THE SHIP OF THE DESERT. 



THE SHIP OF THE DESERT. 

" Onward, my Camel ! — On, though slow ; 

Halt not upon these fatal sands ! 
Onward my constant Camel go — 
The fierce Simoom hath ceased to blow, 

We soon shall tread green Syria's lands ! 

" Droop not my faithful Camel ! Now 

The hospitable well is near ! 
Though sick at heart, and worn in brow, 
I grieve the most to think that thou 

And I may part, kind comrade, here ! 

" O'er the dull waste a swelling mound — 

A verdant paradise — I see ; 
The princely date-palms there abound, 
And springs that make it sacred ground 

To pilgrims like to thee and me ! " 

The patient Camel's filmy eye. 

All lustreless, is fi_xed in death ! 
Beneath the sun of Araby 
The desert wanderer ceased to sigh, 
Exhausted on its burning path. 

Then rose upon the Wilderness 

The solitary Driver's cry : 
Thoughts of his home upon liim press. 
As, in his utter loneliness. 

He sees his burden-bearer die. 

Hope gives no echo to his call — 

Ne'er from his comrade will he sever ! 

The red sky is his funeral pall ; 

A prayer — a moan — 'tis over, all — 
Camel and lord now rest forever ! 



THE poet's wrsH. 233 

A three hours' journey from the spring 
Loved of the panting Caravan — 

Within a little sandy ring — 

The Camel's bones lie whitening, 
With thine, old, unlamented man ! 



THE POET'S WISH. 

WOULD that in some wild and winding glen 
Where human footstep ne'er did penetrate, 

And from the haunts of base and selfish men 
Remote, in dreamy loneness situate, 

1 had my dwelling : and within my ken 

Nature disporting in fantastic form — 
Asleep in green repose, and thundering in the 
storm ! 

Then mine should be a life of deep delight, — 

Rare undulations of ecstatic musing ; 
Thoughts calm, yet ever-varying, stream bedight 
With flowers immortal of quick Fancy's choos- 
ing— 
And like unto the ray of tremulous light. 

Blent by tjie pale moon with the entranced 

water, 
I'd wed thee. Solitude, dear Nature's first-born 
dauffhter ! 



234 ISABELLE. 



ISABELLE. 



A SERENADE. 

Hark ! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute, 

As softly it plaineth o'er 
The story of one to whose lowly suit 

Thy heart shall beat no more ! 
List to its tender plaints, my love, 
Sad as the accents of saints, my love, 

Who mortal sin deplore ! 

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake, 
'Tis sorrow that tunes these strings ; 

A last farewell would the minstrel take 
Of her whose beauty he sings : 

The moon seems to weep on her way, my love, 

And, shrouded in clouds, seem to say, my love. 
No hope with the morning springs ! 

Deep on the breeze peals the hollow sound 

Of the dreary convent bell ; 
Its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round. 

Will girdle my Isabelle ! 
They'll take thtie away from these, arms, love, 
And bury thy blossoming charms, love. 

Where midnight requiems swell. 

At the high altar I see thee kneel. 
With pallid and awe-struck face ; 

I see the veil those looks conceal 
That shone with surpassing grace — 

The shade will prey on thy bloom, my love, 

While I shall wend to the tomb, my love, 
And leave of my name no trace. 



WHAT IS THIS WORLD TO ME ? 235 

We lov'd and we grew, we grew and we lov'd, 

Twin flowers in a dewy vale ; 
The churchman's cold hand hath one remov'd, 

The other will soon wax pale : 
O fast will be its decline, my love, 
As this dying note of mine, my love, 

Lost in the evening gale ! 



WHAT IS THIS WORLD TO ME? 

What is this world to me ? 
A harp sans melodie ; 
A dream of vain idlesse, 
A thought of bitterness, 
That grieves the aching brain. 
And gnaws the heart in twain ! 

My spirit pines alwaie. 
Like captive shut from day ; 
Or like a sillie flower, 
Estranged from sun and shower — 
Which, withering, soon must die, 
In love-lorne privacie. 

No joye my hearte doth finde, 
With those they calle my kinde ; 
O dull it is and sad. 
To see how men waxe bad : 
As Autumn leaves decay, 
So verteue fades away ! 



236 THE WANDERER, 



TO A LADY'S BONNET. 

Invidious shade ! why thus presume, 
O'er face so fair to cast thy gloom ; 
And hide from the ena^iored sight, 
Those lips so sweet and eyes so bright ? 
Why veil those blushes of the cheek. 
Which purity of soul bespeak ? 
Why shroud that brow in hermit cell. 
On which high thoughts serenely dwell ? 
Why chain severe the clustering hair, 
That whilome shed a radiance rare — 
A golden mist — o'er neck and brow, 
Like sunset over drifted snow ? 

O kindly shade, forever be 
Between me and love's witchery ! 
Forever be to Ellen's eyes, 
Like grateful cloud in summer skies, 
Mellowing the fervor of the day : 
For should they dart another ray 
Of their enchanting light on me. 
Farewell the proud boast — I am free ! 



THE WANDERER. 

No face I look upon doth greet me 

With smile that generous welcome lends ; 

No ready hand, with cheerful glow. 

Is now stretched out, all glad, to meet me 

A chill distrust on every brow. 

Assures me I have here no friends ! 



THE WANDERER. 237 

I miss the music of home voices, 
The rushing of the mountain tlood, 

My country's birds that bhthely sung 

In woodlands where green May rejoices, 

Discoursing love whep life was young 



And mirthful ever was my mood. 



r>^ 



The breezes soft that fan my cheek, 

The bower that shades the sun from me. 

The sky that spans this Southern shore, 
Do all a different language speak 

From breeze and bower I loved of yore. 
And sky that spans my own countree. 

They bring not health to exiled men — 
They light not up the home-bent eye ; 

No, piecemeal wastes the way-worn frame 
That longs to tread its native glen — 

That trembles when it hears the name 
Of that land where its fathers lie ! 

The sun which shines seems not the sun 
That rose upon my native fields ; 

Majestic rolls he on his way, 

A cloudless course hath he to run — 

But beams he with the kindly ray 

He to our Northern landscape yields ? 

The moon that trembles in these skies, 
Like to an argent mirror sheen — 

Ruhng with mistless splendor here — 
Does she above the mountains rise, 

And smile upon the waters clear, 
As in my days of youth I've seen ? 

O beautiful and peerless light, 

That thou should'st seem unlovely now, 
That thou should'st fail to wake anew 

Those looks of heartfelt pure delight. 



238 SONG. 

Which youthful Fancy upward threw, 
While gazing on thy cold, pale brow ! 

But this is not a kindred land, 

Nor this the old familiar stream ; 
And these are not the friends of youth — 

O heartless, loveless, seems this strand- 
Its people lack the kindly ruth, 

The soother of life's turbid dream ! 

Away regret ! Here must I die, 

Remote from all my soul held dear — 

My grave, upon an alien shore. 
Will ne'er attract the passer-by 

The lonely sleeper to deplore — 

No flower will grace the stranger's bier ! 

Winds of the melancholy night, 

Begin your solemn dirge and bland ! 

The giant clouds are gathering fast. 

The fearful moon withdraws her light — 

In mournful visions of the past, 
Again I'll seek my native land ! 



SONG. 

I LOOK on thee once more, — 

I gaze on thee and sigh. 
To think how soon some hearts run o'er 

With love, and then run dry. 

I need not marvel long 

That love in thee expires, 
For shallowest streams have loudest song. 

Most smoke the weakest fires. 



THE hunter's well. 239 

« 

I deemed thee once sincere, — 
Once thought thy breast must be 

A fountain gusliing through the year 
With Hving love for me ! 

For so it was with mine, 

The well-springs of my soul 
Were opened up, and streamed to thine, 

As their appointed goal. 

And now they wander on, 

O'er barren sands unblest, 
Since falsehood placed its seal upon 

Thy fair, but frozen, breast ! 



THE HUNTER'S WELL. 

Life of this wilderness, 

Pure gushing stream, 
Dear to the Summer 

Is thy murmuring ! 
Note of the song-bird, 

Warbling on high, 
Ne'er with my spirit made 

Such harmony 
As do thy deep waters. 

O'er rock, leaf, and flower. 
Bubbling and balibling 

The long sunny hour ! 

Tongue of this desert spot. 
Spelling sweet tones. 

To the mute listeners — 
Old mossy stones ; 

Who ranged these stones near 
Thy silver rim, 



240 THE TRUSTING HEART. 

Guarding the temple 
\Vliere rises thy hymn ? 

Some thirst-stricken Hunter — 
Swarth priest of the wood, 

Around thee hath strewn them, 
In fond gratitude. 

Orb of the green waste, 

Open and clear, 
Friend of the Hunter, 

Loved of the deer ; 
Brilliantly breaking 

Beneath the blue sky, 
Gladdening the leaflets 

That tremulous sigh ; 
Star of my wandering, 

Symbol of love, 
Lead me to dream of 

The Fountain above ! 



IT DEEPLY WOUNDS THE TRUSTING 
HEART. 

It deeply wounds the trusting heart 

That ever throbs to good. 
To know that by a perverse art 

It still is misconstrued : 

And thus the beauties of the field, 

The glories of the sky, 
To lofty natures often yield 

Sole solace ere they die. 

The things that harmless couch on earth, 
Or pierce the blue of heaven, 

Have mystic reasons in their birth 
Why they should be sin-shriven. 



THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD. 241 

The secrets of the human breast 

No human eye may scan ; 
With Him alone those secrets rest 

Who made and judgeth man. 

Nor hghtly should we estimate 

The Hand which rules it so, 
Nor idly seek to penetrate 

What angels may not know. 

Enough that with a righteous will, 

In this disjointed scene, 
The upright one, through good and ill, 

Will be as he hath been. 

And should a ribald multitude 

Repay with hate his love, 
He still can smile : man's ways are viewed 

By Him who rules above. 



THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD. 

" O, SiLLARvyrooD ! sweet Sillarwood, 
Gin Sillarwood were mine, 

I'd big a bouir in Sillarwood 
And theik it ower wi' thyme ; 

At ilka door, and ilka bore. 

The red, red rose, wud shine ! " 

It's up and sang the bonnie bird, 
Upon her milk-white hand — 
" I wudna lig in Sillarwood, 
For all a gude Earl's land ; 
I wadna sing in Sillarwood, 
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand ! 
16 



242 THE ETTIN O' SILLAEWOOD. 

" The wild boar rakes in Sillarwood, 
The buck drives thro' the shaw, 
And simmer woos the Southern wind 
Thro' Sillarwood to blaw. 

" Thro' Sillarwood, sweet Sillarwood, 
The deer hounds run so free ; 
But the hunter stark of Sillarwood 
An Ettin lang is he ! " 

" O, Sillarwood ! sweet Sillarwood," 

Fair Marjorie did sing, 
" On the tallest tree in Sillarwood, 

That Ettin lang will hing ! " 

The Southern wind it blaws fu' saft, 

And Sillarwood is near ; 
Fair Marjorie's sang in Sillarwood, 

The stark hunter did hear. 

He band his deer hounds in their leash, 
Set his bow against a tree, 

And three blasts on his horn has brocht 
The wood elf to his knee. 

" Gae bring to me a shapely weed, 

Of silver and of gold, 
Gae bring to me as stark a steed, 

As ever stepped on mold ; 
For I maun ride frae Sillarwood 

This fair maid to behold ! " 

The wood elf twisted sunbeams red 

Into a shapely weed. 
And the tallest birk in Sillarwood 

He hewed into a steed ; 
And shod it wi' the burning gold 

To glance like ony glede. 



THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD. 243 

The Ettin shook his bridle reins 

And merrily they rung, 
For four and twenty sillar bells 

On ilka side were hung. 

The Ettin rade, and better rade, 

Some thretty miles and three, 
A bugle horn hung at his breast, 

A lang sword at his knee ; 
" I wud I met," said the Ettin lang, 

" The maiden Marjorie ! " 

The Ettin rade, and better rade, 

Till he has reached her bouir. 
And there he saw fair Marjorie 

As bricht as lily flouir. 

" O Sillarwood ! — Sweet Sillarwood ! — 
Gin Sillarwood were mine. 
The sleuthest hawk o' Sillarwood 
On dainty flesh wud dine ! " 

" Weel met, weel met," the Ettin said, 
" For ae kiss o' that hand, 
I wud na grudge my kist o' gold 
And forty fees o' land ! 

" Weel met, weel met," the Ettin said, 
" For ae kiss o' that cheek, 
I'll big a bower wi' precious stanes, 
The red gold sal it theik : 

" Weel met, weel met," the Ettin said, 
" For ae kiss o' thy chin, 
I'll welcome thee to Sillarwood 
And a' that grows therein ! " 

" If ye may leese me Sillarwood 
Wi' a' that grows therein, 



244 THE ETTIN O' 8ILLARW00D. 

Ye're free to kiss my cheek," she said, 
" Ye're free to kiss my chin — 

The Knicht that hechts me Sillarwood 
My maiden thocht sal win ! 

" My luve I've laid on Sillarwood — 
Its bonnie aiken tree — 
And gin that I hae Sillarwood 
I'll link alang wi' thee ! " 

Then on she put her green mantel 
Weel furred wi' minivere : 

Then on she put her velvet shoon, 
The silver shining cleai\ 

She proudly vaulted on the black — 

He bounded on the bay — 
The stateliest pair that ever took 



It's up and sang the gentil bird 
On Marjorie's fair hand — 
" I wudna wend to Sillarwood 
For a' its timbered land — 

Nor wud I lig in Sillarwood 
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand ! 

" The Hunters chace thro' Sillarwood 
The playfu' herte and rae ; 
Nae maiden that socht Sillarwood 
E'er back was seen to gae ! " 

The Ettin leuch, the Ettin sang, 
He whistled merrilie, 
" If sic a bird," he said, " were mine, 
I'd liing it on a tree." 

" Were I the Lady Marjorie, 
Thou hunter fair but free, 



THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD. 245 

My horse's head I'd turn about, 
And think nae mair o' thee ! " 

It's on they rade, and better rade, 

They shimmered in the sun — 
'Twas sick and sair grew Marjorie 

Lang ere that ride was done ! 

Yet on they rade, and better rade, 
They neared the Cross o' stane — 

The tall Knicht when he passed it by 
Felt cauld in every bane. 

But on they rade, and better rade, 

It .evir grew mair mirk, 
O loud, loud nichered the bay steed 

As they passed Mary's Kirk ! 

" I'm wearie o' this eerie road," 

Maid Marjorie did say — 
" We canna weel greet Sillarwood 

Afore the set o' day ! " 

" It's no the sinkin' o' the sun 

That gloamins sae the ground, 
The heicht it is o' Sillarwood 
That shadows a' around." 

" Methocht, Sir Knicht, broad Sillarwood 
A pleasant bield wud be. 
With nuts on ilka hazel bush, 

And birds on ilka tree — 
But oh ! the dimness o' this wood 
Is terrible to me ! " 

" The trees, ye see, seem wondrous big, 
The branches wondrous braid. 
Then marvel nae if sad suld be 
The path we hae to tread ! " 



246 THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD. 

Thick grew the air, thick grew the trees, 

Thick hung the leaves around. 
And deeper did the Ettin's voice 
In the dread dimness sound — 
" I think," said Maiden Marjorie, 
" I hear a horn and hound ! " 

" Ye weel may hear the hound," he said, 
" Ye weel may hear the horn. 
For I can hear the wild halloo 
That freichts the face o' Morn ! 

" The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood 
Hae packs full fifty-three : 
They hunt all day, they hunt all nicht, 
They never bow an ee : 

" The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood 
Hae steeds but blude or bane : 
They bear fiert maidens to a weird 
Where mercy there is nane ! 

" And I the Laird o' Sillarwood 
Hae beds baith deep and wide, 
(Of clay-cauld earth) whereon to streik 
A proud and dainty bride ! 

" Ho ! look beside yon bonny birk — 
The latest blink of day 
Is gleamin' on a comely heap 
Of freshly dug red clay ; 

" Richt cunning hands they were that digged 

Forenent the birken tree 
Where every leaf that draps, frore maid, 

Will piece a shroud for thee — 
It's they can lie on lily breist 

As they can lie on lea ! 



LIKE A WORN GRAY-HAIRED MARINER. 247 

" And they will liap thy lily breist 
Till flesh fa's aff the bane — 
Nor tell thy freres how Maijorie 
To Sillarwood hath gane ! 

" The bed is strewed, Maid Marjorie, . 

Wi' bracken and wi' brier, 
And ne'er will gray cock clarion wind 

For ane that slumbers here — 
Ye wedded have the Ettin stark — 

He rules the Realms of Fear ! " 



LIKE A WORN GRAY-HAIRED MARINER. 

Like a worn gray-haired mariner whom the sea 
Hath wrecked, then flung in mockery ashore, 
To clamber some gaunt cliff, and list the roar 

Of wave pursuing wave unceasingly ; 
His native land, dear home, and toil-won store 

Inexorably severed from his sight ; 
His sole companions Hopelessness and Grief — 

Who feels his day will soon be mirkest night — 
Who from its close alone expects relief — 

Praying life's sands, in pity, to descend 
And rid him of life's burden, — So do I 
Gaze on the world, and time fast surging by, 

Drifting away eaah hope with each tried friend — 
Leaving behind a waste where desolate I may die. 



248 



THE LAY OF GEOFFROI RUDEL. 

With faltering step would I depart, 
Froin home and friend that claimed my heart- 
And the big tear would dim mine eye, 
Fixed on the scenes of early years, 
(Each spot some pleasure past endears) 
And I would mingle with a sigh 
The accents of the farewell lay — 
But for my love that's far away ! 

Friends and dear native land, adieu ! 
In hope we part — no tears bedew 
My cheek — no dark regrets alloy 
The buoyant feelings of the hour 
That leads me to my ladye's bower — 
My breast throbs with a wondrous joy, 
While every life-pulse seems-to say — 
" Haste to thy love that's far away !" 



ENVIE. 

Ane plante there is of the deidliest pouir 
Quhilk flourischis deeply in the hert; 

Its lang rutis creip and fald outoure 
Ilka vive and breathen part: 

Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon 

Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown. 

Blak is the sap of its baleful stem, 
Lyk funeral blicht its leavis do fal ; 

In its moistoure is quenchit luve's pure flame, 
It drappis rust on inmost saul : 

Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon. 

Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown. 



love's tokens. 249 

Evir It flourischis meikel and hie, 

Nae stay, nae hindraunce will it bruik ; 

In ae nicht sprynging np, a burdlie tree, 
Schedding its bale at ae single luik : 

Lustilie boargenis the weid anon, 

Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown. 

It canna be kj-thit to the gudely sun, 

It pynyth sae at his nobil sicht ; 
It shrinkyth quyte like a thing undone 

Quhan luikit on by the blessit licht : 
In hert whence heevinlie luve hath gone 
Thilke evil weid aye bourgenis on. 

Fell Envie's th' plant of mortal pouir 
Q'uhilk flourischis grenelye in the hert — 

Raining the slawe and poisonous shouir 
Quhilk cankereth the vertuous part : 

Black Envie wherever its seed is sawin, 

Fashion is a hert like the foul Fiend's awin ! 



LOVE'S TOKENS. 

Love's hei-ald is not speech — 
His fear-fraught tongue is mute- 

His presence is bewrayed 
By blushes deep that shoot 

Athwart the conscious brow, 
And mantle on the cheek. 

Then fleet for tints of snow 
. AVhich soft confusion speak ; 

Thus red and white have place 

By turns on true love's face. 

Love vaunteth not his worth 
In gaudy, glozing phrase, 



250 O SAY NOT PURE AFFECTIONS CHANGE. 

His home is not in breast 

Where thought of worldling stays ; 
In modest loyaltie 

His fountain doth abide ; 
In bosom greatly good 

The lucid pulses tide 
That ebb and flow there ever, 
Till soul and body sever. 

Trust not the ready lip 

Whence flows the fulsome song — 
True love aye gently hymns, 

False love chants loud and long. 
Young Beauty, cherish well 

The bashful, anxious eye. 
The lip that may not move, 

The breast that stills the sigh — 
A recreant to thee 
Their lord will never be ! 



O SAY NOT PURE AFFECTIONS 
CHANGE ! 

O SAY not pure affections change 
When fixed they once have been, 

Or that between two noble hearts 
Hate e'er can intervene ! 

Though coldness for a while may freeze 
The love-springs of the soul. 

Though aHgry pride its sympathies 
May for a time control. 

Yet such estrangement cannot last — 

A tone, a touch, a look. 
Dissolves at once the iciness 

That crisp'd affection's brook : 



THE ROSE AND THE FAIR LILYE. 251 

Again tliey feel the genial glow 

Within the bosom burn, 
And all their pent-up tenderness 

With tenfold force return ! 



THE ROSE AND THE FAIR LILYE. 

The Earlsburn Glen is gay and green, 

The Earlsburn water cleir. 
And blythely blume on Earlsburn bank 

The broom and eke the brier ! 

Twa Sisters gaed up Earlsburn glen — 
Twa maidens bricht o' blee — 

The tane she was the Rose sae red, 
The tither the Fair Lilye ! 

" Ye mauna droop and dwyne, Sister" — 

Said Rose to fair Lilye — 
" Yer heart ye mauna brek. Sister — 

For ane that's ower the sea : 

" The vows Ave silHe maidens hear 
Frae wild and wilfu' man. 
Are as the words the waves wash out 
When traced upon the san' ! " 

" I mauna think yer speech is sooth," 

Saft answered the Lilye — 
" I winna dout mine ain gude Knicht 

Tho' he's ayont the sea ! " 

Then scornfully the Rose sae red 
' Spake to the pure Lilye — 
" The vows he feigned at thy bouir door, 
He plicht in mine to me ! " 



252 YOUNG LOVE. 

" I'll hame and spread the sheets, Sister, 
And deck my bed sae hie — 
The bed sae wide made for a bride, 
For I think I sune sal die ! 

" Your wierd I sal na be, Sister, 
As mine I fear ye've bin — 
Your luve I wil na cross, Sister, 
It were a mortal sin ! " 

Earlsburn Glen is green to see, 

Earlsburn water cleir — 
Of the siller birk in Earlsburn Wood 

They framit the Maiden's bier ! 

There's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir, 

She nevir lifts an ee — 
That dame was ance the Rose sae red, 

She is now a pale Lilye. 

A Knicht aft looks frae his turret tall. 
Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green ; 

He wonne the weed and lost the flouir. 
And grief aye dims his een : 

At noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht, 
The warrior kneels in prayer — - 

He prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird. 
And wishes he were there ! 



YOUNG LOVE. 

It seems a dream the infant love 
That tamed my truant will. 

But 'twas a dream of happiness, 
And I regret it still ! 



TO THE TEMPEST. 253 

Its images are part of me, 

A very part of mind — 
Feelings and fancies beautiful 

In purity combined ! 

Time's sunset lends a tenderer tinge 

To what those feelings were, 
Like the cloud-mellow'd radiance 

Wh^ evening landscapes bear : 

They wedded are unto my soul, 

As light is blent with heat. 
Or as the hallowed confluence 

Of air with odors sweet. 

Though she, the spirit of that dream, 

Lacks of the loveliness 
Young fancy robed her in, yet I 

May hardly love her less : 

Even when as in my boyish time 

I nestled by her side, 
Her ever gentle impulses 



TO THE TEMPEST. 

Chant on, ye stormy voices, loud and shrill 
Your wild tumultuous melody — strip 
The forest of its clothing — leave it bare. 
As a deserted and world-trampled foundling ! 
Lash on, ye rains, and pour your tide of might 
Unceasingly and strong, and blench the Earth's 
Green mantle with your floods : Suddenly swell 
The brawling torrent in the sleep-locked night. 
That it may deluge the subjacent plain. 
And spread destruction where security 



254 GOE CLEED Wl' SMYLIS THE CHEEK. 

Had fondly built its faith, and knelt before 
The altar of its refuge — Sweep ye down 
Palace. and mansion, hall and lofty tower, 
And creeping shed, into one common grave ! 

Ye lightnings that are flashing fitfully — 

(Heaven's messengers) askant the lurid sky. 

Burst forth in one vast sheet of whelming fire — 

Pass through the furnace the base loMs of earth, 

With subtile fury inextinguishable — 

That, purified, they may again appear 

As erst they were, free of soul-searing sin 

And worldly-mindedness ! For mailed they be, 

Obdurate all, in selfish adamant, 

So riveted, that it would need a fire 

Potential as the ever-burning pit, 

To overcome and melt it, so that hearts 

Might beat and spirits move to chords sublime, 

Tuned by the hand of the Omnipotent, 

As when man, from His Hands, in His beauty came ! 



GOE CLEED WP SMYLIS THE CHEEK ! 

GoE deed wi' smylis the cheek, 

Goe fill wi' licht the eye — 
O vain when sorrows seek 

The fontis of bliss to drie ! 

Quhan Hope hath pyned away, 

Quhan carke and care haif sprung, 
Quhan hert hath faun a prey 

To grief that hed nae tongue ; 
O then it is nae tyme 

To feinzie quhat we fele. 
Or wi' ane merrie chime, 

To droun the solemne peal 



GOE CLEED Wl' SMYLIS THE CHEEK. 255 

Quhllk ringis dreir and dul, 
Quhan hert and eyne ar ful. 

Nae joy is thair for me 

In lyf againe to knowe — 
Nae plesuir can I see 

In its fals and fleetinge schew ! — 
Lyk wyld and fearful waste 

Of wavis and bollen sand, 
Apperis the path I've tracit 

In with my natif land : 
Fra it I must depairt, 
And fra al quhilk heel mie hert. 

Farewell to kith and kin, 

Farewell to luve untrew, 
Farewell to burn and lin, 

Farewell to lift sua blew — 
Farewell to bauck and brae, 

Farewell to sang and glee — 
Farewell to pastyme gay, 

Quhilk ance delytit me — 
Farewell thou sunny strand, 
Farewell ance kinde Scotland ! 

Fresch flouirs beare mie frend, 

Unto mie earlie graive, 
Thair bid them nevir dwyne, 

But ower mie headstane waive ; 
Perchance to sume they'll wake 

Remembrance o' mie dome — 
And though fading, they maye make 

Less lonesum-lyk mie tombe — 
Sins they will emblems be 
Of thy luvinge sympathye. • 

Now farewell day's dear licht — 

Now farewell frend and fae — 
Hail to the starrie nicht, 

Whair travailit saul maun gae ! 



256 I MET Wl' HER I LUVED YESTREEN. 



THE POET'S DESTINY. 

Dark is the soul of the Minstrel — 

Wayward the flash of his eye ; 
The voice of the proud is against him, 

The rude sons of earth pass him by. 

Low is the grave of the Minstrel — 
Ungraced by the chisel of art ; 

Yet his name will be blazoned forever 
On the best of all 'scutcheons — the heart ! 

Strong is the soul of the Minstrel — 
He rules in a realm of his own ; 

His world is peopled by fancies 

The noblest that ever were known. 

Light is the rest of the Minstrel, 
Though heavy his lot upon earth ; 

From the sward that lies over his ashes 
Spring plants of a heavenly birth ! 



I MET Wr HER I LUVED YESTREEN. 

I MET wi' her I luved yestreen, 

I met her wi' a look o' sorrow ; 
My leave I took o' her for aye, 

A weddit bride she'll be the morrow ! 
• 

She durst na gie ae smile to me, 

Nor drap ae word o' kindly feelin'. 
Yet down her cheeks the bitter tears, 

In monie a pearly bead, were stealin'. 



TO THE LADY OF MY HEART. 257 

I could na my lost luve upbraid, 

Altho' my dearest hopes were blighted, 

I could na say — " ye're fause to me ! " — 
Tho' to anither she was plighted. 

Like suthfast friens whom death divides, 
In Heaven to meet, we silent parted; 

Nae voice had we our griefs to speak, 
^Ve felt sae lone and broken-hearted. 

I'll hie me frae my native Ian', 

Far frae thy bly thesome banks o' Yarrow ! 
Wae's me, I canna bide to see 

My winsume luve anither's marrow ! 

I'll hie me to a distant Ian', 

Wi' downcast qc and life-sick bosom, 
A weary waste the warld's to me. 

Sin' I hae lost that bonnie blossom ! 



TO THE LADY OF MY HEART. 

They oft have told me that deceit 
Lies hid in dimpled smiles. 

But eyes so chaste and lips so sweet 
Conceal not wanton wiles ! 

I'll trust thee, lady ! — To deceive, 

Or guileful tale to speak, 
Was never fashioned I believe 

The beauty of thy cheek ! 

Yes, I will trust the azure eye 
That thrilled me with dehght, 

The loving load-star of a sky 
Which erst was darkest night. 
17 



258 THE FAUSE LADYE. 



Ever, dear maid, In weal or woe, 

In gladness and in sorrow, 
Hand clasped in hand, we'll forward go, 

Both eventide and morrow ! 



THE FAUSE LADYE. 

" The water woets my toe," she said, 
" The water weets my knee ; 
Hand np. Sir Knicht, my horse's head. 
If you a true luve be ! " 

" I luved ye weel, and luved ye lang. 
Yet grace I failed to win ; 
Nae trust put I in ladye's troth 
Till water weets her chin ! " 

" Then water weets my waist, proud lord, 
The water weets my chin ; « 

My achin' head spins round about, 
The burn maks sik a din — 

Now, help thou me, thou fearsome Knicht, 
If grace ye hope to win ! " 

" I mercy hope to win, high dame. 
Yet hand I've nane to gie — 
The trinklin' o' a gallant's blude 
Sae sair hath blindit me ! " 

" Oh ! help !— Oh ! help !— If man ye be 
Have on a woman ruth — 
The waters gather round my head 
And gurgle in my mouth ! " 

" Turn round and round, fell Margaret, 
Turn round and look on me — 



MY AIN COUNTRIE. 259 

The pity that ye schawed yestreen 
I'll fairly schaw to thee ' 

" Thy girdle-knife was keen and bricht — 
The ribbons wondrous fine — 
'Tween every knot o' them ye knit 
Of kisses I had nine ! 

" Fond Margaret ! Fanse Margaret ! 
You kissed me cheek and chin — 
Yet, when I slept, that girdle-knife 
You sheathed my heart's blude in ! 

" Fause Margaret ! Lewde Margaret ! 
The nicht ye bide wi' me — 
The body, under trust, you slew, 
My spirit weds wi' thee ! " 



MY AIN COUNTRIE. 

Ye bonnie haughs and heather braes 
Whair I hae daft youth's gladsome days, 
A dream o' by-gane bliss ye be 
That gars me sigh for my ain countrie ! 

Lang dwinin' in a fremit land 

Doth feckless mak' baith heart and hand, 

And starts the tear-drap to the ee 

That aye was bricht in the auld countrie. 

Tho' Carron Brig be gray and worn, 
Where I and my forebears were born, 
Yet dearer is its time-touched stone 
Than the halls of pride I now look on. 



260 TO A FRIEND AT PARTING. 

As music to the Hngeriu' ear 
Were Carron's waters croonin' clear ; 
They call to me, where'er I roam, 
The voices o' my long-lost home ! 

And gin I were a wee wee bird, 
Adown to licht at Randie Ford, 
In Kirk O'Muir I'd close mine ee. 
And fald my wings in mine ain countrie ! 



TO A FRIEND AT PARTING* 

Farewell, my friend ! — Perchance again 
I'll clasp thee to a faithful heart — 

Farewell my friend ! — We part in pain, 
Yet we must part ! 

Were this memento to declare 

All that the inward moods portray, 

Dark boding grief were pictured there. 
And wild dismay ! 

For thee, my fancy paints a scene 
Of peace on life's remoter shore — 

Thy wishes long fulfilled have been, 
Or even more : 

And when success hath crowned thy toil. 
And hope hath raised thy heart to Heaven- 

Thou well mayst love the generous soil 
Where love was given. 



* The " Friend at Parting " was Mr. Robert Peacock, at present 
(July, 1848) resident, I believe, in Germany. — K. 



TO A FRIEND AT PARTLNG. 261 

For me, my friend, I fear there's naught, 

In dim futurity, of gladness ; 
There ever rises on my thought 

A dream of sadness : 

Yet gazing upon guileless faces, 

Sunned by the light of laughing eyes, 

I recreant were to own no traces 
Of social ties. 

Even I may borrow from another 
The smile I fain would call my own, 

Striving, with childish art, to smother 
The care unknown. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! — All good attend thee — 
At home, abroad — on land, or sea — 

That Heaven may evermore befriend thee, 
My prayer shall be ! 

Should a dark thought of him arise 
Whose parting hand thou must resign, 

Let it go forth to stormy skies, 
Not tarnish thine : 

Never may Melancholy's brood 

Disturb the fountain of thy joy. 
Nor dusky Passion's fitful mood 

Thy peace alloy ! 

" Up, anchor ! up ! " — The mariner 

Thus hymns to the inconstant wind — 
Heave not one sigh, where'er you steer, 
For me behind ! 



262 SONG. 



I PLUCKED THE BERRY. 

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown 

nut from the tree, 
But heart of happy little bu-d ne'er broken was by 

me ; 
I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, 

slyly peer 
With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note 

if harm were near : 
I passed them by, and blessed them all ; I felt that 

it was good 
To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home 

is in the wood. 

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue 

doth sing, 
He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims 

liis little wing. 
He will not fly ; he knows full well, while chirping 

on that spray, 
I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his 

lay: 
Sing on, sing on, blithe bird ! and fill my heart 

with summer gladness. 
It has been aching many a day with measures full 

of sadness ! 



SONG. 

O LIGHT, licht was maid Ellen's fit — 

It left nae print behind, 
Until a belted Knicht she saw 

Adown the valley wind ! 



263 



And winsome was maid Ellen's cheek, 

As is the rose on brier, 
Till halted at her father's yett 

A lordly cavalier. 



Till he knelt at her bouir- 
As lark's rejoicin' in the sun, 
Her princely paramour. 

But dull, dull now is Ellen's eye. 
And wan, wan is her cheek, 

And slow an' heavy is her fit, 
That lonesome paths would seek : 

And never sang does Ellen sing 
Amang the flowers sae bricht, 

Since last she saw the dancin' plume 
Of that foresworne Knicht ! 



TO * * * * 

1 NEVER dreamed that lips so sweet, 
That eyes of such a heavenly hue. 

Were framed for falsehood and deceit. 

Would prove, as they have proved — untrue. 

Methought if love on earth e'er shone, 
'Twas in the temple of thine eyes, 

And if truth's accents e'er were known, 
'Twas in the music of thy sighs. 

Has .then thy love been all a show, 
Thy plighted truth an acted part — 

Did no affection ever glow 

In the chill reoion of that heart ? 



264 THE knight's requiem. 

And could'st thou seem to me to clinff 
Like tendril of the clasping vine, 

Yet all prove vain imagining, 

Thy soul yield no response to mine ? 

It has been so — so let it be — 

Rejoice, thou false one, in thy guile, 

Others, perhaps, may censure thee, 
I would not dim thy fickle smile. 

Farewell ! — In kindness I would part. 
As once I deemed in love we met — 

Farewell ! — This wrong'd and bleeding heart 
Can thee Forgive, but not Forget ! 



THE KNIGHT'S REQUIEM. 

They have waked the knight so meikle of might, 

They have cased his corpse in oak ; 
There was not an eye that then was dry; 

There was not a tongue that spoke. 
The stout and the true lay stretched in view, 

Pale and cold as the marble stone ; 
And the voice was still that like trumpet shrill, 

Had to glory led them on ; 
And the deadly hand whose battle brand 

Mowed down the reeling foe, 
Was laid at rest on the manly breast. 

That never more mought glow. 

With book, and bell, and waxen light, 

The mass for the dead is sung ; 
Thorough the night in the turret's height. 

The great church-bells are rung. 



THE knight's requiem. 265 

Oh woe ! oh woe ! for those that go 

From Hght of Hfe away, 
'Whose hmbs may rest with worms unblest, 

In the damp and silent clay ! 

With a heavy cheer they upraised his bier, 

Naker and drum did roll : 
The trumpets blew a last adieu 

To the good knight's martial soul. 
With measured tread thro' the aisle they sped, 

Bearing the dead knight on, 
And before the shrine of St. James the divine, 

.They covered his corpse with stone : 
'Twas fearful to see the strong agony 

Of men who had seldom wept. 
And to hear the deep groan of each mail-clad one, 

As the lid on the coffin swept. 

With many a groan, they placed that stone 

O'er the heart of the good and brave, 
And many a look the tall knights took 

Of their bix)ther soldier's grave. 
Where banners stream and corslets gleam 

In fields besprent with gore, 
That brother's hand and shearing brand 

In the van should wave no more : 
The clarions call on one and all 

To arm and fight amain. 
Would never see, in chivalry, 

Their brother's make again ! 

With book, and bell, and waxen light. 

The mass for the dead is sung, 
And thorough the night in the turret's height, 

The great church bells are rung. 
Oh woe ! oh woe ! for those that go 

From the light of life away, 
Whose limbs must rest with worms unblest. 

In the damp and silent clay ! 



266 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 



THE ROCKY ISLET. 

Perchance, far out at sea, thou may'st have found 
Some lean, bald cliif — a lonely patch of ground, 
Alien amidst the waters : — some poor Isle 
Where summer blooms were never known to smile, 
Or trees to yield their verdure — yet, around 
That barren spot, the dimpling surges throng. 
Cheering it with their low and plaintive song, 
And clasping the deserted cast-away 
In a most strict embrace — and all along 
Its margin, rendering freely its array 
Of treasured shell and coral. Thus we may 
Note love in faithful woman ; oft among 
The rudest shocks of life's wide sea she shares 
Man's lot, and more than half his burden bears 
Around whose path are flowers, strewn by her ten- 
der cares. 



THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 

I've looked, and trusted, sighed, and loved my last ! 
The dream hath vanished, the hot fever's past 

That parched my youth ! 
Though cheerless was the matin of my years. 
And dim life's dawning through a vale of tears. 

Yet Hope, in ruth. 
With smile persuasive, evermore would say — 
" Live on, live on ! — Expect Joy's summer day " — 

Vain counsel, void of truth ! 

Yes, to the world I've clung with fond embrace, 
And each succeeding day did more efface 
Its hollow joys, 



THOSE RADIANT EYES. 267 

And friends died out around me everywhere, 
And I was left to be the idle stare 

Of vagrant boys — 
A landmark on the ever-shifting tide 
Of fashion, folly, impudence and pride, 

And ribald noise. 

Yes, I have lived, and lived until I knew 
The world ne'er alters its ungrateful hue, 

And glance malign ; 
And though, at times, some chance-sown noble spirit 
Its wilderness a season may inherit, 

In want and pine. 
Yet these be weeded soon, and pass away, 
All unbefriended, to their funeral clay ! 

Array thyself for flight, my soul, nor tarry — 
Thou bird of glory ne'er wert doomed to marry 

A sphere so rude — 
But to be mated with some hermit star, 
O'er heaven's soft azure keeping watch afar, 

In pulchritude : 
Uplift thy pinions, seek thy resting-place, 
Where kindred spirits long for thy embrace — 

Dear brotherhood. 



OH, TURN FROM ME THOSE RADIANT 
EYES! 

Oh, turn from me those radiant eyes. 

With love's dark lightning beaming, 
Or veil the power that in them lies 

To set the young heart dreaming ! 
Oh, dim their fire, or look no more. 

For sure 'tis wayward folly 
To make a spirit, gay before, 

To droop with melancholy ! 



268 O THINK NAE MAIR O' ME, SWEET MAY. 

Ungen'rous victor ! not in vain 

Thy wild wish to subdue me — 
To woo once more thy glance I'm fain, 

Even should that glance undo me : 
What pity tlmt thy hps of rose 

So fitted for heart healing, 
Should not, v/ith tenderest kisses, close 

The wounds thine eyes are dealing ! 



O THINK NAE MAIR O' ME, SWEET 
MAY! 

O THINK nae mair o' me, sweet May ! 

O think nae mair o' me ! 
I'm but a wearied ghaist, sweet May, 

That hath a wierd to dree ; 
That langs to leave a warld, sweet May, 

O' eerie dull and pain. 
And pines to gang the gate, sweet May, 

That its first luve hath gane ! 

Although the form is here, sweet May, 

The spirit is na sae ; 
It wanders to anither land — 

A far and lonely way. 
My bower is near a ruined kirk. 

Hard by a grass-green grave. 
Where, fed wi' tears, the gilliflowers 

Above a true heart wave ! 

Then think nae mair o' me, sweet May, 

If I had luve to gie, 
It suld na need a glance but ane 

To bind me, dear, to thee. 
But blossoms twa o' life's best flower 

This heart it canna bear — 
It cast its leaves on Mary's grave. 

And it can bloom nae mair ! 



THE LOVE-LORX KNIGHT, ETC. 269 



THE LOVE-LORN KNIGHT AND THE 
DAMSEL PITILESS. 

" Uplift the Gonfanons of war — exalt the ruddy 
Rood — 

Arise ye winds and bear me on against the Paynim 
brood ! 

Farewell to forest-cinctured halls, farewell to song 
and glee, 

For toilsome march and clash of swords in glorious 
Galilee ! 

And grace to thee, haught damoisel — I ask no part- 
ing tear — 

Another love may greet thee when I'm laid upon my 
bier ! 

" My bark upon the foaming flood shall bound be- 
fore the gale, 

Like arrow in its flight, until the Holy Land we 
hail ; 

Then firmly shall our anchors grasp the belt of 
Eastern land. 

For planks will shrink and cordage rot ere we re- 
gain this strand ; 

And welcome be the trumpet's sound, the war- 
steed's tramp and neigh, 

And death, for Palestina's cause, in the battle's hot 
mellay ! " 

O never for that love-lorn youth did vessel cleave 

the seas ! 
The hand of death was on the lips that wooed the 

ocean breeze ; 
They bare him to the damoisel, they laid him at 

her knee, 
Though knight and. pilgrim wept aloud — no tear 

dropt that ladye — 



270 LOVE IN WORLDLYNESSE. 

Three times she kissed the clay-cold brow of her 

unbidden guest, 
Then took the vows at Mary's shrine, and there her 

ashes rest. 



LOVE IN WORLDLYNESSE. 

The gentle heart, the truthful love. 

Have flemed this Earth and lied to Heaven — 
The noblest spirits earliest prove 
Not Here below, but There above, 

Is Hope no shadow — Bliss no sweven ! 

There was a time, old Poets say. 

When the crazed world was in its nonage, 

That they who loved were loved alwaye, 

With faith transparent as the day, 

But this, meseems, was fiction's coinage. 

We cannot mate here as we ought. 

With laws opposed to simple feeling ; 
Professions are, like lutestring, bought, 
And worldly ties soon breed distraught, 
To end in cold congealing ! 

Forms we have worshipped oft become, 

If haply they affect our passion. 
Though faultless, icy cold and dumb, 
Because we are not rich, like some. 

Or j)roud — Such is this strange world's fashion ! 

Rapt Fancy lends to unchaste eyes 

Ideal beauty, and on faces 
Where red rose blent with lily tries 
For mastery, in wanton wise, 

Bestows enchanting graces : 



LOVE IJT WORLDLYNESSE, 271 

Yet, as we gaze, the charms decay 

That promised long with these to linger ; 

Of love's delight we're forced to say, 

It melts like dreamer's weahh away, 

Which cheers the eye but mocks the finger ! 

And, therefore, move I calmly by 

The siren bosom softly heaving. 
And mark, untouched, the tempter's sigh, 
Or make response with tranquil eye — ' 

" Kind damsel, I am past deceiving ! " 

Long sued I as a man should do. 

With cheek high flushed by deep emotion — 
My lady's love had no such hue. 
Hard selfishness would still break through 

The glowing mask of her devotion ! 

No land had I — but I had health — 
No store was mine of costly raiment — 

My lady glided oif by stealth 

To wed a lozel for his wealth — 
And this was Loyalty's repayment ! 

The language of the trusting heart. 

The soothfast fondness firm, but tender — 

Are now to most a studied part, 

A tongue assumed, a trick of art. 
Whereof no meaning can I render. 

And hence I say that loyal love 

Hath flemed the Earth and fled to Heaven ; 
And that not Here, but There above, 
Souls may love rightfully, and prove 

Hope is no shadow — Bliss no sweven 1 



272 A NIGHT VISION. 



A NIGHT VISION. 

Lucina shyning in silence of the nicht ; 
The hevin being all full of starris bricht; 
To bed I went, bot there I tuke no rest, 
With hevy thocht I was so sair oppressed, 
That sair I langit after dayis licht. 
Of fortoun I complainit hevely, 
That echo to me stude so contrarously ; 
And at the last, quhen I had turnyt oft 
For werines, on me ane slummer soft 
Came, with a le dremiug and a fantesy. 

Dunbar. 

I HAD a vision in the depth of nifjlit — 

A dream of <i;lory — one long thrill of gladness — 

A thing of strangest meaning and delight ; 

And yet npon my heart there came such sadness, 

And dim forebodings of my after years, 

That I awoke in sorrow and in tears ! 

There stood revealed before me a bright maid, 
Clad in a white silk tunic, which displayed 
The beautiful proportions of her frame ; 
And she did call upon me by my name — 
And I did marvel at her voice, and shook 
AVith terror, but right soon the smiling look 
Of gentleness, that radiant maiden threw 
From her large sparkhng eyes of deepest blue, 
Did reassure me. Breathless, I did gaze 
Upon that lovely one, in fond amaze, 
And marked her long white hair as it did flow, 
With wanton dalliance, o'er the pillared snow 
Of her swan-like neck ; — and then my eye grew 

dim 
With an exceeding lustre, for the slim 
And gauze-wove raiment of her bosom fair, 
Was somewhat ruffled by the midnight air ; 
And as it gently heaved, there sprung to view 
Such glories underneath — such sisters two 



A NIGHT VISION. '273 

Of rival loveliness ! Oh, 'twere most vain 
For fond conceit to fancy such again. 
The robe she wore was broidered fetouslye 
With flour and leaf of richest imagerye ; 
And threads of gold therein were entertwined 
With quaintest needlecraft ; and to my mind 
It seemed, the waist of this most lovely one 
Was clipped within a broad and azure zone, 
Studded Ayith strange devices — One small hand 
Waved gracefully a slender ivory wand, 
And with the other, ever and anon, 
She shook a harp, which, as the winds sighed past, 
Gave a right pleasant and bewitching tone 
To each wild vagrant blast. 

Meseems, 
After this wondrous guise, that maiden sweet 
Stood visible before me, while the beams 
Of Dian pale, laughed round her little feet 
With icy lustre, through the narrow pane ; 
And this discourse she held in merry vein ; 
Although methought 'twas counterfeited, and 
The matter strange, that none might understand. 

She told me, that the moon was in her wane — 
And life was tiding on, and that the world 
Was waxen old — that nature grew unkind, 
And men grew selfish quite, and sore bechurled — 
That Honor was a bubble of the mind — 
And Virtue was a nothing undefined — 
And as for Woman, She, indeed, could claim 
A title all her own — She had a name 
And place in Time's long chronicles. Deceit — 
And Glory was a phantom — Death a cheat ! 

She said I might remember her, for she 
Had trifled with me in mine infancy ; 
And in those days, that now are long agone, 
Had tended me, as if I were her own 
18 



274 A NIGHT VISION. 

And only offspring. When a very child, 
She said, her soothing whispers oft beguiled 
The achings of my heart — that in my youth. 
She, too, had given me dreams of Honor, Truth, 
Of Glory and of Greatness — and of Fame — 
And the bright vision of a deathless name ! 
And she had turned my eye, with upward look, 
To read the bravely star-enamelled book 
Of the blue skies — and in the rolling spheres 
To con strange lessons, penned in characters 
Of most mysterious import — she had made 
Life's thorny path to be all sown with flowers 
Of diverse form and fragrance, of each shade 
Of loveliness that glitters in the bowers 
Of princely damoisels, — Nay, more, her hand 
Had plucked the bright flowers of another land. 
Belike of Faerye, and had Avoven them 
Like to a chaplet, or gay diadem. 
For me to wear in triumph — But that she 
Had fostered me so long, ^e feared, I'd spoil 
M'^ith very tenderness, nor ever be 
Fit for this world's coarse drudgery and moil : 
Did she not even now take leave of me, 
And her protecting, loving arms uncoil 
Forever and forever, — and though late. 
Now leave me to self-guidance, and to fate. 

Then passed that glorious spirit, and the smile 
She whilom wore fled from her beauteous cheek : 
And paleness, and a troubled grief the while 
Subdued her voice. — Methought I strove to speak 
Some words of tender sympathy, and caught 
Her small white trembling hand, but, she, dis- 
traught, 
Turned her fair form away, and nearer drew 
To where the clustering ivy leaves thick grew. 
And shaded half the casement — There she stood, 
Like a tall crystal column, in the flood 
Of the fair moonshine, and right thoughtful-wise 



A NIGHT VISION. '275 

She seemed to scan the aspect of the skies ; 

Sudden a tremulous tear filled either eye, 

Yet fell not on her cheek, but dubiously, 

Like dew gems upon a flower, hung quivering 

there ; 
And, like a love-crazed maiden, she half sang, 
Half uttered mournful fancies in despair ; 
And indistinctly in my ear there rung 
Something of years to be, — of dark, dark years, 
Laden with sorrow, madness, fury, tears — 
Of days that had no sunshine — and of nights 
Estranged from slumber — of harsh worldly slights — 
Of cruel disappointments — of a hell 
That gloweth in the bosom, fierce and fell, 
Which may not be exting-uished — of the pains 
Of journeying through lone and trackless plains 
Which have no limits — and of savage faces, 
That showed no trait of pity ! 

Tlien that maid 
Stretched her long arms to heaven, and wept for 

shame ; 
And as upon her soul dim bodements came. 
Once more, in veriest sadness, thus she said : 
" I may not cheer him more ! I may not breathe 
Life in his wasting limbs, nor healthy fire 
In his gi'ief-sunken eye — I may not wi-eathe 
Fresh flowers for him to gaze on, nor inspire 
DeUcious dreamings, when the paly host 
Of cares and troubles weigh his spirit down, 
And hopes delayed, in worse despair are lost ; 
Unaided, he may sink upon the path, 
No hand of succor near, nor melting eye 
To yield its pittance poor of sympathy ; 
Already, too successful have I weaved 
My tiny web of folly ; undeceived, 
At length, he'll view its baseless fabric pass, 
Like fleeting shadows o'er the britde glass, 
Leaving no substance there ; and he may curse, 



276 A NIGHT VISION. 

With bitter malison, his too partial nurse, 
And charge her with his sufferings ! " 

So wept 
That maid, in seeming son-ow, till there fell 
From her lips Grief's volume- word — Farewell ! 
And then, methought, she softly passed away, 
As a thin mist of glory on a ray 
Of purest moonshine ; or like starlet bright 
Sailed onward through the ocean of the night ! 

And then, meseems, I heard the wailing sound 
Of a wind-harp afar, and voice of one 
Who sung thereto a plaintive melody ; 
And some words reached me, but the rest were 

drowned 
In dimmest distance, and the hollow moan 
Of the night-breezes fitful sweeping by ; 
Yet these stray words, erewhile on earth they fell, 
Told Hope had pitying smiled before her last fare- 
well. 

Then all grew dark and loveless, and afar 
I saw the falling down of many a star. 
As the moon paled in sorrow — And the roar 
Of darkly tumbling floods I heard, that dashed 
Through the deep fissures of the rifted rock — 
While phantoms flitted by with ghastly mock, 
And jeers malign — and demons on me glar'd 
Looks of infernal meaning ; then in silence 
Troop'd onwards to their doom ! 

Starting, I broke 
Sleep's leaden bonds of sorrow, and awoke, 
W^ondering to find my eyeballs red with tears ! 
And my breast heaving with sepulchral fears. 



THE LONE THORN. 277 



THIS IS NO SOLITUDE. 

This is no Solitude ; these brown woods speak 
In tones most musical — this limpid river 
Chants a low song, to be forgotten never ! — 
These my beloved companions are so meek, 
So soul-sustaining, I were crazed to seek 
Again the tumult, the o'erpowering hum, 
Which of the ever busy hiving city come — 
Parting us from ourselves. — Still let us breathe 
The heavenly air of contemplation here ; 
And with old trees, gray stones, and runnels 
clear, 
Claim kindred and hold converse. He that seeth 
Upon this vesper spot no loveliness, 
Nor hears therein a voice of tenderness, 
Callinof him friend, Nature in vain would bless ! 



THE LONE THORN. 

Beneath the scant shade of an aged thorn. 

Silvered with age, and mossy with decay, 
I stood, and there bethought me of its morn 

Of verdant lustihood, long passed away ; 
Of its meridian vigor, now outworn 

By cankering yeai's, and by the tempest's sway 
Bared to the pitying glebe. — Companionless, 

Stands the gray thorn complaining to the wind — 
Of all the old wood's leafy loveliness 

The sole memorial that lags behind ; 
Its compeers perished in their youthfulness. 

Though round the earth their roots seem'd firmly 
twined : 
How sad it is to be so anchored here 
As to outlive one's mates, and die without a tear ! 



278 THE SLAYNE MENSTREL. 



THE SLAYNE MENSTREL. 

Ane harper there was — ane harper gude — 
Cam' harpin' at the gloamiii' fa' — 

And he has won to the bonnie bield 
Quhilk calht is the Newtoun Ha'. 

" Brume, brume on hil" — the harper sang — 
" And rose on brier are blythe to see — 
I would I saw the brume sae lang, 

Quhilk cleidis the braes o' my ain countree ! ' 

" Out on ye, out, ye prydefu' loun, 
Wi' me ye winna lig the nicht — 
Hie to some bordel in borrowe toun : 
Of harpand craft I hand but licht ! 

" Out on ye, out, ye menstrel lewde " — 

Sayd the crewel Laird o' the Newtoun Ha'— 

" Ye'll nae bide here, by blessit Rude, 
Gif harpe or lyf ye reck ava' ! " 

" I care na for mie lyf ane plack " — 
Quoth that auld harper sturdilie — 

" But this gude harpe uj)on mie back 
Sal ne'er be fylit by ane lyk thee ! " 

" Thou liest there, thou menstrel wicht ! " 

Outspak the Laird o' the Newtoun Ha' — 

" For ye to death bedene are dicht. 

Half at thee here and mend thy saw ! " 

Alace, Alace, the harper gude 

^ Was borne back aganis the wa'. 
And wi' the best o' his auld hertis blude, 
They weetit hae the Newtoun Ha' ! 



THE SLAYNE MEXSTREL. 279 

Yet did he die wi' harpe in han', 
Maist lyk ane menstrel o' degree — 

There was na ane in a' the land 

Might matche wi' him o' the North countree ! 

Erie Douglas chauncit to ryde therebye — 

Ane gallant gentleman was he — 
Wi' four score o' weel harnessit men, 

To harrie in the South countree. 

He haltit at the Newtoun Ha' — ^ 

" Quhat novelles now, bauld Laird, hae ye?" 
" If s I half slayne a worthlesse wicht, 

Ane menstrel lewde, as you may see ! " 

" Now schaw to me the harper's heid, 
And schaw to me the harper's hand, 
For sair I fear you've causeless spilt 
As gentil blude as in a' Scotland ! " 

" Kep then his heid, thou black Douglas — 
Sayd boastfullie fase Newtoun Ha' — 

" And kep his hand, thou black Douglas, 
His fingers slim his craft may schaw ! " 

The stout Erie vysit first the heid. 
Then neist he lukit on the hand — 
" It's foul befa' ye, Newtoun Ha', 

Ye've slayne the pryde o' gude Scotland ! 

" Now stir ye, stir, my merrie men, 

The faggot licht, and bete the flame, 
A fire sal rise o'er this buirdly bield. 

And its saulless Laird in the lowe we'll tame ! " 

The bleeze blew up, the bleeze clipt roun* 
The bonny towers o' the Newtoun Ha', 

And evir as armit men ran out, 

Black Douglas slewe them ane and a'. 



280 THE M.ERMAIDEN. 

The bleeze it roarit and wantonit roun' 
The weel-pilet wawis o' the Newtoun Ha', 

And ruif and rafter, bank and beam, 
Aneath the bauld fyris doun did fa' ! 

Now waly for the crewel Laird — 
As he cam lonpin' through the lowe, 

Erie Douglas swappit aff his heid 
And swuns it at his saddil bo we ! 



THE MERMAIDEN. 

" The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill, 

And the white faem weets my bree, 
And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden, 

That the laud we sail never see ! " 
Then up and spak' the mermaiden, 

And she spak' blythe and free, 
" I never said to my bonnie bridegroom, 

That on land we sud weddit be. 

" Oh ! I never said that ane erthlie priest 

Our bridal blessing should gi'e. 
And I never said that a land wart bouir 

Should hauld my love and me." 
" And whare is that priest, my bonnie maiden. 

If ane erthlie wicht is na he ? " 
" Oh ! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair. 

When weddit we twa sail be." 

" And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden, 

If on land it sud na be ? " 
" Oh I my blythe bouir is low," said the mermaiden, 

" In the bonnie green howes of the sea : 
My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels, 

And the banes o' the drowned at sea ; 



SONG. 281 

The fisch are the deer that fill my parks, 
And the water waste my dourie. 

" And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves, 

And paved wi' the yellow sand, 
And in my chanmers grow bonnie white flowers 

That never grew on land. 
And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom, 

A leman on earth that wud gi'e 
Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land, ' ^ 

As I'll gi'e to thee o' the sea ? 

" The mime will rise in half ane hour. 

And the wee bright starns will schine ; 
Then we'll sink to my bouir, 'neath the wan water 

Full fifty fathom and nine ! " 
A wild, wild skreich gi'ed the fey bridegroom, 

And a loud, loud lauch, the bride ; 
For the mune raise up, and the twa sank down 

Under the silver'd tide. 



SONG. 

He courted me in parlor, and he courted me in ha'. 
He courted me by Bothwell banks, amang the 

flowers sae sma', 
He courted me wi' pearlins, wi' ribbons, and wi' 

rings, 
He courted me wi' laces, and wi' mony mair braw 

things ; 
But O he courted best o' a' wi' his black blythe- 

some ee, 
Whilk wi' a gleam o' witcherie cuist glaumour over 

me. 



282 SONG. 

We hied thegither to the Fair — I rade ahint my 

I fand.his heart leap up and doun, while mine beat 

faint and low ; 
He turh'd his rosy cheek about, and then, ere I 

could trow, 
The widdifu' o' wickedness took arles o' my mou ! 
Syne, when I feigned to be sair tleyed, sae pawkily 

as he 
Bann'd the auld mare for missing fit, and thrawin 

him ajee. 

And aye he waled the loanings lang, till we drew 

near the town. 
When I could hear the kimmers say — "There rides 

a comely loun ! " 
I turned wi' pride and keeked at him, but no as to 

be seen, 
And thought how dowie I wad feel, gin he made 

love to Jean ! 
But soon the manly chiel, aff-hand, thus frankly said 

to me, 
" Meg, either tak me to yoursel, or set me fairly 

free ! " 

To Glasgow Green I link'd wi' him, to see the ferlies 

there. 
He birled his penny wi' the best — what noble could 

do mair ? 
But ere ae fit he'd tak me hame, he cries — " Meg, 

tell me noo : 
Gin ye will hae me, there's my lufe, I'll aye be leal 

an' true." 
On sic an honest, loving heart how could I draw a 

bar? 
What could I do but tak Rab's hand, for better or 

for waur ? 



THE LEAN LOVER, 283 



THE LEAN LOVER. 

I PACED, an easy rambler, 

Along the surf-washed shore — 
And watched the noble fi-eightage 

The swelling ocean bore. 
I met a moody fellow 

Who thus discoursed his woe — 
" Across the inconstant waters. 

Deceitful woman, go ! 

" I loved that beauteous lady — 

More truly wight ne'er loved — 
I loved that high-born lady. 

My faith she long had proved : 
Her troth to me she plighted 

With passion's amorous show — 
Go o'er the inconstant waters, 

Ungrateful worldling, go ! 

" Be mine yon cliff-perched chapel 

AVhich beetles o'er the deep ; 
There, like some way-worn palmer, 

I'll sit me down and weep. 
I'll note upon the billows 

Her lessening sail of snow. 
And waft across the waters — 

Go, fleeting fair one, go ! " 

He clambered to the chapel 

That toppled o'er the deep — 
There, like a way-worn palmer, 

He laid him down to weep : 
And still I heard his wailing 

Upon the strand below — 
" Go o'er the inconstant waters. 

Go, faithless woman, go ! " 



284 MUSIC. 



aff:ectest thou the pleasures 
of the shade? 

Affectest thou the pleasures of the shade, 
And pastoral customs of the olden time, 
When gentle shepherd piped to gentle maid. 
On oaten reed, his quaint and antique rhyme ? 
Then welcome to the green and mossy nook. 
The forest dark and silver poppling brook, 
And flowers in fragrant indolence that blossom 
On the sequestered valley's sloping bosom — 
Where in the leafy halls glad strains are pealing, 
The woodland songsters' amorous thoughts revealing : 
Look how the morning's eager kisses wake 
The clouds that guard the Orient, blushing red — 
Behold heaven's phantom-chasing Sovereign shake 
The golden honors of his graceful head 
Above that earth his day-dawn saw so fair ! — 
Now damsels lithe trip lightsomely away, 
To bathe their clustered brows and bosoms bare 
In virgin dews of budding, balmy May ! 



MUSIC. 

Strange how the mystically mingled sound 
Of voices rising from these rifted rocks 
And unseen valleys — whence no organ ever 
Thundered harmonious its stupendous notes. 
Nor pointed arch, nor low-browed darksome aisle, 
Rolled back theif mighty music — seems to me 
An ocean vast, divinely undulating. 
Where, bathed in beauty, floats the enraptured soul ; 
Now borne on the translucent deep, it skirts 
Some dazzling bank of amaranthine flowers, 



THE SHIPWRECKED LOVER. 285 

Now on a couch of odors cast supine, 

It pants beneath o'erpowering redolence : — 

Buoyant anon on a rejoicing surge, 

It heaves, on tides tumultuous, far aloft, 

Until it verges on the cope of heaven. 

Whence issued, in their unity of joy, 

The anthems of the earth-creating Mom : 

Yielding again to an entrancing slumber, 

In sweet abandonment, it glideth on 

To amber caves and emerald palaces, 

Where the lost Seraphs — welcomed by the main — 

Their lyres suspended in their time of sorrow, 

Amid the deepening glories of the flood ; — 

There the rude revels of the boisterous winds 

The tranquillous waves afflict not, nor dispart 

The passionate clasping of their azure arms ! 



THE SHIPWRECKED LOVER. 

The Port-Reeve's maid has laid her down 

Upon a restless pillow. 
But wakeful thought is wandei'ing 

Ayont the ocean billow. 
Her love's away — he's far aWay — 

A world of waves asunder — 
Around him now the storm may burst 

With fearful peals of thunder ! 

But yet — the night-wind's breath is faint, 

The night-beam entereth meekly ; 
But when the moon's fair face is free, 

Strange she should shine so weakly ! — 
Yet guided by her waning beam 

His ship must swim securely — 
Beneath so fair a sky as this 

He'll strike his haven surely ! 



THE SHIPWRACKED LOVER. 

There came a knocking to the door, 

That hour so lone and stilly ; 
And something to the maiden said — 

' " Arise for true love Willie ! " 
Another knock ! another still — 

Three knocks were given clearly — 
Then quickly rose the Port-Reeve's maid- 

Her seaman she loved dearly ! 

And first she saw a streak of light, 

Like moonshine cold and paly ; 
And then she heard a well-known step — 

The maiden's pulse beat gayly ! 
She saw a light, she heard a step. 

She marked a figure slender 
Across the threshold pass like thought, 

And stand in her lone chamber. 

It paced the chamber once and twice, 

It crossed it three times slowly — 
But when she to her Maker prayed. 

It fled like sprite unholy. 
The form the vanished shadow wore 

Was of her true love Willie — 
O not a breath escaped the lips 

That pallid looked and chilly ! 

Long motionless the maiden stood. 

In wonder, fear, and sorrow — 
A tale of wreck, a tale of woe 

Was told her on the morrow ! 
The ship of her returning hopes 

Had sunk beneath the billow — 
The ocean-shell, the ocean-weed 

Were now her lover's pillow ! 



HOLLO, MY fancy! 287 



HOLLO, MY FANCY! 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Thou art free — 
Nor bolt nor shackle fetters thee ! 
Thy prison door is cleft in twain. 
And Nature claims her child again ; 
DofF the base weeds of toil and strife, 
And hail the world's returning life ! 

Up and away ! 'Tis Nature's voice 
•Bids thee hie fieldward and rejoice ; 
She calls thee from unhallowed mirth 
To walk with beauty o'er the earth ; 
Proudly she calls thee forth, and now 
Prints blandest kisses on thy brow ; 
On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare. 
She pours the balmy morning air : 
The fulness of a mother's breast 

Swells for thee in this gracious hour ; 
Up, Sluggard, up ! from dreams unblest, 

And let thy heart its love outpour ! 
Up, Sluggard, up ! all is awake 

With song and smile to welcome thee ; 
The tlower its timid buds would break 

Wert thou but once abroad to see ! 
Teeming with love, earth, ocean, air 
Are musical with gi-ateful prayer ! 
Each measured sound, each glorious sight, 
Personifies intense delight ! 
The breeze that crisps the summer seas, 
Or softly plains through leafy ti^ees, 
Or, on the hill-side, stoops to chase 
The wild kid in its giddy race — 
The breeze that, like a lover's sigh, 
Of mingled fear and ecstasy. 
Plays amorous over brow and cheek, 
Methinks it has a voice to speak 



288 HOLLO, MY fancy! 

The joys of the awakening' morn — 
When, on exulting pinion borne, 
The lark, sole monarch of the sky, 
Pours fi'om his throat rich melody. 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Fast a-field, 
Aurora's face is just revealed : 
Night's shadows yet have scantly sped 
Midway up yonder mountain's head — 
While in the valley far below. 
The misty billows, ebbing, show 
Wliere fairy isles in beauty glow ; 
Delicious spots of elfin green, 
Emerging from a world unseen, 
Of dreams and quaintest fantasies — 
Spots that would the Faerye Queen 
To a very tittle please ! 
Away the shadowy phantoms roll, 

Up-borne by the rising breeze. 
Fluttering like some banner scroll ; 

Wliile, peering o'er the silent seas 
Of yon far shore, thou may'st descry 
The red glance of the Day-Star's eye ! 

Hollo, my Fancy ! J^et us trace 
The breaking of the vestal dawn ! 

Through cfappled clouds, with stealthy pace, 
It travels over mount and lawn. 
Lacings of crimson and of gold. 
Threaded and twined an hundred-fold, 
Bar the far Orient, while the sea 
Of molten brass appears to be. 
And lo ! upon that glancing tide 
Vessels of snowy whiteness glide : 
Some portward, self-impelled are steering, 
Some in the distance disappearing ; 
And some, through mingled light and shade, 
Like visions gleam — like visions fade. 
Strange are these ocean mysteries I 



HOLLO, MY fancy! 289 

No helmsman on the poop one sees, 

No sailor nestled in the shrouds, 

Singing to the passing clouds. 

But let us leave old Neptune's show, 

And to the dewy uplands go ! 

Now skyward, in a checkered crowd, 

Rolls each rosy-edged cloud, 

Flaunting in the upper air 

Many a tabard rich and rare ; 

And mantling, as they onward rush, >■ 

Every hill-top with a blush, 

To dissolve, streak after streak, 

Like rose tints on a maiden's cheek, 

When, in wanton waggish folly, 

The chord of love's sweet melancholy 

Is rudely smitten, and the cheek 

Tells tales the lip might never speak. 

Hollo, my fancy ! It is good 
To seek soul-soothing solitude ; . 
To leave the city, and the mean, 
Cold, abject things that crawl therein ; 
Flee crowded street and painted hall. 
Where sin rules rampant over all ; 
To roam where greenwoods thickest grow, 
Where meadows spread and rivers flow, 
WTiere mountains loom in mist, or lie 
Clad in a sunshine livery ; 
Wander through dingle and through dell, 
Which the sweet primrose loveth well ; 
And where, in every ivied cranny 
Of mouldering crag, unseen by any, 
Clouds of busy birds are dinning 
Anthems that welcome day's beginning : 
Or, like lusty shepherd groom. 
Wade through seas of yellow broom ; 
And, with foot elastic tread 
On the shrinking floweret's head. 
As it droops with dew-drops laden, 
19 



290 HOLLO, MY FANCY. 

Like some tear-surcharged maiden : 
Skip it, trip it deftly, till 
Every flower-cup liquor spill, 
And green earth grows bacchanal, 
Freed from night's o'ershadowing pall ; 
Or let us climb the steep, and know 
How the mountain breezes blow. 

Hither, brave Fancy ! Speed we on, 
Like Judah's bard to Lebanon ! 
Every step we take, more nigh 
Mounts the spirit to the sky. 
Sounds of life are waxing low 
As we high and higher go. 
And a deeper silence given 
For choice communing with heaven ; 
On this eminence awhile 
Rest we from our vigorous toil : 
Forth our eyes, mind's scouts that be, 
Cull fresh food for fantasy I 
Like a map, beneath these skies, 
Fair the summer landscape lies — 
Sea, and sand, and brook, and tree, 
Meadow broad, and sheltered lea. 
Shade and sunshine intermarried. 
All deliciously varied : 
Goodly fields of bladed corn. 
Pastures green, where neatherd's horn 
Bloweth through the livelong day. 
Many a rudely jocund lay : 
There be rows of waving trees. 
Hymning saintliest homilies 
To the weary passer-by. 
Till his heart mount to his eye. 
And his tinghng feelings glow 
With deep love for all below. 
While his soul, in rapturaus prayer, 
Finds a temple everywhere. 
See, each headland hath its tower, 



HOLLO, MY FANCY ! 291 

Every nook its own love bower — 

While, from every sheltered glen, 

Peep the homes of rustic men ; 

And apart, on hillock green, 

Is the hamlet's chapel seen : 

Mingled elms and yews surround 

Its most peaceful burial-ground ; 

Like sentinels the old trees stand. 

Guarding death's sleep-silent land. - 

Adown the dell a brawling burn, >' 

With wimple manifold, doth spui-n ^ 

The shining pebbles in its course, 

Foaming like spur-fretted horse — 

A mighty voice in puny form, 

Miniature of blustering storm. 

It rates each shelving crag and tree 

That would abridge its liberty. 

And roundly swears it will be free ! 

'Tis even so, for now along 

The plain it sweeps with softened song ; 

And there, in summer, morn and noon, 

And eve, the village children wade, 

Oft wondering if the streamlet's tune 

Be by wave or pebble made ; 

But, unresolved of doubt, they say 

Thus it tunes its pipe alway. 

Woodward, brave Fancy ! Overhead 
The sun is waxing fiery red ; 
No cloud is floating on the sky 
To interrupt his brilliancy. 
Or mar the glory of his ray 
While journeying on his lucid way. 
But here, within this forest chase. 
We'll wander for a fleeting space, 
'Mid walks beneath whose clustering leaves 
Bright noontides wane to sober eves ; 
And where, 'mong roots of timbers old, 
Pale flowers are seen Uke virgins cold — 



292 HOLLO, MY fancy! 

(Virgins fearful of the Sun, 

Most beautiful to look upon) — 

In some soft and mossy nook, 

Where dwells the wanderer's eager look. 

Until the Sun hath sunken down 
Over the folly-haunting town, 
And curious Stars are forth to peer 
With frost-hke brilliance, silvery clear, 
From the silent firmament — 
Here be our walk of sweet content. 
Around is many a sturdy oak 
Never scathed by woodman's stroke ; 
Many a stalwart green-wood tree, 
Loved of Waithman bold and free. 
When the arrow at his side. 
And the bow he bent with pride, 
Gave the right to range at will. 
And lift whate'er broad shaft might kill. 
Here, belike famed Robin Hood, 
Or other noble of the wood, 
Clym of the Cleuch, or Adam Bell, — 
Young Gandelyn that shot full well, — 
Will Cloudeslie, and Little John, 
Or Bertram, wight of blood and bone, 
Plied their woodcraft, maugre law : 
Raking through the green-wood shaw, 
Bow in hand, and sword at knee. 
They hved true thieves, and Waithmen free. 

In the twilight of tliis wood — 
And, awe-breathing solitude — 
Heathens of majestic mind. 
Might a fitting temple find 
Underneath some far-spread oak, 
Nature blindly to invoke. 
What is groined arch to this 
Mass of moveless leafiness ? 
What are clustered pillars to 
The gnarled trunk of silvery hue, 
That, Titan-like, heaves its huge form 



HOLLO, MY fancy! 293 

Through centuries of change and storm, 
And stands as it were planted there, 
Alike for shelter and for prayer ? 

Hither, my jocund Fancy ! Turn, 
And note how heaven's pure watchfires burn 
In yonder fields of deepest blue, 
Investing space with glories new ! 
And hark how in the bosky dell 
Warbles mate-robbed Philomel ! 
Every sound from that glade stealing 
Sadness wooes with kindred feeling — 
The notes of a love-broken heart 
Surpass the dull appeal of art ; 
Here rest awliile, for everywhere, 

On lake, lawn, tower, and forest tree, 
Falleth in floods the moonshine fair — 

How beautiful night's glories be ! 
No stir is heard upon the land. 

No murmur from the sea ; 
The pulse of life seems at a stand 

As nature quaflfeth, rapturously, 
From yonder ambient worlds of light, 
Deep draughts of passionate delight 

Hollo, my Fancy ! It is well 
To ponder on the spheres above — 
To bid each fount of feeling swell 
Responsive to the glance of love. 
See ! trooping in a gladsome row, 
How steadfastly these tapers glow ; 
And fight up hill and darksome glen 
To cheer the path of wand'ring men, 
And eke of frolic elf and fay 
That haunt the hollow hill, or play 
By crystal brook, or gleaming lake. 
Or dance until the green wood shake 
To fits of choicest minstrelsie. 
Under the cope of the witch elm-tree. 

When all is hush around and above. 



294 HOLLO, MY FANCY ! 

Then is the hour to carp of love ; 
When not an eye but ours is waking. 
Nor even the lightest leaflet shaking — 
When, like a newly-captured bird, 
The fluttering of the heart is heard ; 
When tears come to the eye unbidden, 
And blushing cheeks are in bosom hidden ! 
While hand seeks softer hand, and there 
Seems spell-bound by the amorous air — 
When love, in very silence, finds 
The tone that pleads, the pledge that binds. 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Whither bounding ? 
Go where rolling orbs are sounding, 
This dull nether world astounding 
With celestial symphonies ; 
Inhale no more the soft replies 
Which gurgling rills and fountains make, 

Nor feed upon the fervid sighs 
Of winds that fan the reedy lake ; 

Leave all terrestrial harmonies 
That flow for pining minstrel's sake. 

Skyward, adventurous Fancy ! Dare 
To cleave the ocean of the air ; 
Soaring on thy vane-like wings 
Rise o'er earth and clod-like things. 
Smite the rolling clouds that bar 
Thy progress to those realms afar ; 
Career it with the Sisters seven. 
Pace it through the star-paved heaven ; 
Snatch Orion's baldric, — then, 
Astride, upon the Dragon, dare 
To hunt the lazy-footed Bear 
Around the pole and back again; 
Scourge him tightly, scourge him faster, 
Let the savage know his master ! 
And, to close the mighty feat, 
Light thy lamp of brave conceit 



love's potencie. 295 

With some grim, red-bearded star, 
(Sign of" Famine, Fire, and War,) 
And hang it on the young moon's horn 
To show how poet thought is born. 



LOVE'S POTENCIE. 

If men were fashioned of the stone. 
Then might they never yield to love — 

But fashioned as they are, they owne 
(On earth, as in the realme above,) 

That Beauty, in perfection, stil 

Controls the thoughts, impels the wil. 

And sure 'twere vaine to stemme the tide 
Of passion surging in the breast — 

Since fierce ambition, stubborn pryde 
Have each the sovereigne power confest ; 

Which rolleth .on, despite all staie. 

Sweeping ilk prudent shifte awaye. 

"What though the mayden that we love 
May fail to meet the troth we bear — 

Nor once its generous warmth approve, 
Nor bate one jot of our despaire — 

Doth not the blind dictator say — 
• Thou foolish wichte pyne on alwaie ! " 

We cannot read the wondrous lawes 

That knit the soul to lovelinesse ; 
We feel their influence, but their cause 

Remains a theme of mysticknesse — 
We only know Love may not be 
O'ermastered by Wil's energie. 

Nor would I wish to break the dream 
Of troubled joy ; that still is mine — 



296 SUPERSTITION. 

Albeit that the cheering gleam 

Of hope hath almost ceased to siiine- 
So long as Beauty light doth give, 
My heart must feel, its love must live ! 



LIFE. 

O Life ! what is thy quest ? — What owns this 

world 
Of stalking shadows, fleeting fantasies, 
Enjoyments substanceless — to wed the mind 
To its still querulous, ever-faltering mate — 
Or crib the pinion of the aspiring soul 
(Upborne ever by the mystical) 
To a poor nook of this sin-stncken earth, 
Or sterile point of time ? — The Universe, 
My spirit, is thy birth- right — and thy term 
Of occupance, thou river, limitless — 
Eternity ! 



SUPERSTITION. 

Dim power ! by very indistinctness made 
More potent, as the twilight's shade 
Gives magnitude to objects mean ; 
Thou power, though deeply felt, unseen, 
That with thy mystic, undefined. 
And boundless presence, fills my mind 
With unimaginable fears, and chills 
My aching heart, and all its pulses stills 
Into a silence deeper than the grave, 
That erst throbbed (juick and brave ' 



SUPERSTITION. 297 

Wherefore, at dead of night, by some lone stream, 

Dost thou, embodying its very sound 

In thy own substance, seem 

To speak of some lorn maiden, who hath found 

Her bridal pillow deftly spread 

Upon the tall reeds' rustling head. 

And the long green sedges graceful sweep. 

Where the otter and the wild drake sleep ? 

And wherefore, in the moonshine clear, 

Doth her wan form appear 

For ever gliding on the water's breast 

As shadowy mist that hath no rest. 

But wanders idly to and fro 

Whithersoe'er the wavering winds may blow ? 

Thou mystic spirit, tell. 

Why in the hollow murmurs of that bell 

Which load the passing wind, 

Each deep full tone but echoes to my mind 

The footfall of the dead — 

The almost voiceless, nameless tread, 

And restless stirring to and fro of those 

To whom the grave itself can never yield repose, 

But whose dark, guilty sprites 

Wander and wail with glowworm lights 

Within the circle of the yew-tree's shade, 

Until the gray cock flaps his wings, 

And the dubious light of morn upsprings 

O'er yonder hoar hill's dewy head '? 

And say, while seated under this gray arch 

Where old Time oft in sooth 

Hath whet his pitiless tooth. 

And gnawed clean through 

Its ivy and moss-velvet coat of greenest hue, 

I watch the moon's swift march 

Through paths of heavenly blue : 

Methinks that there are eyes which gaze on me, 

And jealous spirits breathing near, who be 



298 SUPEKSTITION. 

Floating around me, or in pensive mood 
Throned on some shatter'd column's ivied head, 
Hymning a warning lay in solitude. 
Making the silent loneness of the place 
More chilly, deep, and dead, 
And more befitting haunt for their aerial race ? 

Terribly lovely power ! I ask of thee. 

Wherefore so lord it o'er my fantasye. 

That in the forest's moaning sound, 

And in the cascade's far-off muttered noise. 

And in the breeze of midnight, and the bound 

And leap of ocean billows heard afar, 

I still do deem these are 

The whispering melodies of things that be 

Immortal, viewless, formless — not of earth, 

But heaven descended, and thus softly 

At midnight mingling their wild mirth : 

Or, when pale Dian loves to shroud 

Her fair and glittering form, beneath the veil 

Of watery mist or dusky fire-edged cloud. 

And giant shadows sail 

With stately march athwart the heaven's calm face ; 

Say then, why unto me is given 

A clearer vision, so that I do see 

Between the lunits of the earth and heaven 

A bright and marvellous race — 

A goodly shining company — 

Flaunting in garments of unsullied snow. 

That ever and anon do come and go 

From star to hill-top, or green hollow glen, 

And so back again ? 

Those visions strange, and portents dark and wild, 
That in fond childhood had a painful pleasure, 
Have not, by reason's voice, been quite exiled, 
But still possess their relish in full measure ; 
And by a secret and consummate art 
At certain times benumb my awe-struck heart — 



COME, THOU BRIGHT SPIRIT! 299 

Making it quail, but not with dastard fear, 
But strange presentiment and awe severe, 
With curious impertinence to pry 
Behind the veil of dim futurity, 
And that undying hope that we may still 
Grasp at the purpose of the Eternal Will. 



YE VERNAL HOURS! 

Ye vernal hours, glad days that once have been ! 
When life was young, and hopes were budding 

seen ! 
When hearts were blithe, and eyes were ghstening 

bright. 
And each new morn awoke to new delight ; 
Ye happy days that softly passed away 
In boyish frolic and fantastic play ! 
Why have ye fled ? why left no more behind, 
Ye sunbright relics of my earher years. 
Than that faint music which, the viewless wind 
At midnight, to the lonely wanderer bears 
From sighing woods, to melt him into tears ? 
The bridled stream by art may backwards flow. 
Youth's fires, once spent, again shall never glow ; 
The flower-stalk broke, each blossom must decay, 
And youth, once past, for aye hath past away ! 



COME, THOU BRIGHT SPIRIT I 

Come, thou bright spirit of the skies. 
With witching harp or potent lyre, 
And bid those magic notes arise 
That kindle souls, and tip with fire 



300 COME, THOU BRIGHT SPIRIT ! 

The prophet's lips. Begin the strain, 

That like the trumpet's stirring sound 

Makes the lone heart to bound 

From' death-like lethargy to life again, 

Bracing the slackened nerve and limb, 

And calling from the eye, all sunk and dim, 

Unwonted fire and noble dai-ing ; 

Or wake that soothing melody 

That stills the tumults of the heart despairing, 

With all its many murmurings small, 

Of soft and liquid sounds that be 

Like to the music of a water-fall, 

Heard from the farthest depths of some green 

wood. 
In quiet moonlit night, that stills the mood 
Of painful thought, and fills the soul 
With pleasant musings, such as childhood knows 
When basking on some green-wood shady knoll. 
And weaving garlands with the drooping boughs. 
Or dost thou sing of woman — of the eye 
That pierces through the heart, and wrays 
Its own fond secrets by a sympathy 
That scorns slow words and idle phrase ? 
Or of the lips that utter wondrous love, 
And yet do scarcely move 
Their ruby portals to emit a sound, 
Or syllable a name, but round and round 
Irradiate themselves with pensive smiles ? 
Or of the bosom, stranger to the wiles 
And thoughts of worthless worldlings, wliich doth 

swell 
With soft emotion underneath its cover. 
And speaks unto the keen-eyed conscious lover 
Thoughts, feelings, sympathies, tongue ne'er could 

tell ? 
Sing'st thou of arms — of glory in the field — 
Where patriots meet in death's embrace. 
To reap high honors where the clanging shield 
And gleaming spear — the swa}^ul ponderous mace, 



THE RITTERS RIDE FORTH. 301 

And the shrill trumpet rings aloud its peal 
Of martial music furious and strong ; 
Where ardent souls together throng 
And struggle in the press of griding steel, 
And fearful shout and battle cry, 
Herald the quivering spirit's sigh, 
That leaves the strife in agony, 
And as it fleets away, still throws 
Its stern defiance on its conquering foes, 
Shriekinof in wrath, not fear ? 



LAYS OF THE LANG BEIN RITTERS. 

Among the ungarnered Poems left by the late Mr. 
Motherwell, I have found certain wild, romantic, and mel- 
ancholy measm^es, fittingly enshrined in a story of Teu- 
tonic spirit and coloring, entitled, " The Doomed Nine, or 
the Lang Bein Kitters." To publish the prose narrative 
lies not within the purpose of this selection — but the 
songs, which conveyed to us a very singular pleasure in 
days endeared to memory by the delights of friendship, 
may not inaptly form the concluding strains of a volume 
whose general aspect accords well (too well) with the 
Poet's cast of thought and premature departure. — K. 



THE RITTERS RIDE FORTH. 

" On the eastern bank of the noble Rhine stood a lofty 
tower, named the Ritterberg ; and, in the pleasant simple 
davs of which we speak, it was held by nine tall knights, 
men of huge stature and prodigious strength, whose prin- 
cipal amiisement was knocking off the heads of the 
unfortunate serfs who inhabited the fruitful valleys cir- 
cumjacent to their stronghold. They madly galloped 
over meadow and mountain, thi'ough firth and forest, 
blowing their large crooked hunting horns, and ever and 
anon uplifting their stormy voices in song." — Mother- 
well. 



O BEAUTIFUL vaUcy, 
We scar not thy bosom ; 



302 LAY OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED 

O bright gleaming lake, we 

Disturb not thy slumber ; 

O tall hill, whose gray head 

Is weeping in heaven, 

We come not to pierce thro' 

Thy dim holy chambers — 

We see thee and love thee, 

And never will mar thee : — 

O beautiful valley, 

Bright lake, and tall mountain, 

The Ritters ride forth ! 

Churls scratch, with the base share, 

The flower-girdled valley ; 

And sheer with the sharp keel, 

The dream-loving billow ; 

They pierce to the heart of 

The grand giant mountain, 

And fling on the fierce flame 

His pale yellow life-strings. 

We come to avenge thee, 

To slay the destroyer. 

O beautiful valley, 

Bright lake, and tall mountain, 

The Ritters ride forth ! 



LAY OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED AND 
HOPE-BEREAVED MEN. 

" Some of those who had been bereaved by these merci- 
less marauders, and would not be comforted, then paced 
towards the hills, and looked back on the scenes of their 
youth. They sang with melancholy scorn and embitter- 
ed passion, this querulous ditty, which later generations 
have remembered as the ' Lay of the Broken-hearted and 
Hope-bereaved men,' who went up to the hollowed moun- 
tain, where they shut themselves up in a cavern, building 



AND HOPE-BEREAVED MEN. 303 

up its mouth strongly wit?i huge stones ; and there, in 
sunlessness and unavaiHng sorrow, these broken-hearted 
ones died." — Motherwell. 

The rude and the reckless wind, 

ruthlessly strips 
The leaf that last lingered on 

old forest tree ; 
The widowed branch wails for 

the love it has lost : , 

The parted leaf pines for 

its glories foregone 
Now sereing, in sadness, and 

quite broken-hearted, 
It mutters mild music, and • 

swan-like on-fieeteth 
A burden of melody, 

musing of death, 
To some desert spot where, 

unknown and unnoted. 
Its woes and its wanderings may 

both find a tomb, 
Far, far from the land where 

it grew in its gladness, 
And hung from its brave branch, 

freshly and green. 
Bathed in blithe dews and 

soft shimmering in sunshine, 
From morn until even-tide, 

a beautiful joy ! 



304 DREAM OF life's EARLY DAY, 



DREAM OF LIFE'S EARLY DAY, FARE- 
WELL FOREVER. 

" Others of the ' Broken-hearted and Hope-bereaved 
men,' as they went on their way, poured forth these 
melancholy measm-es." — Mothekwell. 

Bright mornings ! of beauty and bloom, that, in 
boyhood, 

Gleamed gay with the visionings glorious of glad 
hope : 

Dear day^ ! that discoursed of delights never-dy- 
ing. 

And painted each pastime with tints of pure pleas- 
ure ; 

Bright days, when the heart leapt like kid o'er the 
mountain. 

And gazed on the fair fields — one full fount of feel- 
ing— 

When wood and when water, flower, blossom, and 
small leaf. 

Were robed in a sunshine that seemed everlasting ; 

Ye were but a dream, and like dream have depart- 
ed ! 
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for- 
ever. 

As the pale cloud that circled in morning the hill- 
top, 

Flitteth, in fleecy wreaths, fast in the sun-blaze ; 

Or, as the slim shadows steal silently over 

The gray walls at noon-tide, so ghost-like on-glid- 
ing, ^ _ • 

And leave not a line for remembrance to linger 
on ; 

So soon and so sadly have terribly perished 

The joys we did muse of in youth's mildest morn ; 



FAREWELL FOREVER. 305 

Time spreads o'er the brow soon his pale sheaf of 
sorrow, 

And freezes each heart-fount that whilom gushed 
freely ; 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for- 
ever. 

The woods and the waters, the great winds of 
heaven, 

Sound on and forever their grand solemn sympho- 
nies ; 

The moon gleams with gladness, — the wakeful stars 
wander, 

With bright eyes of beauty, that ever beam pleas- 
ure ; 

The sun scatters golden fire — bright rays of glory — 

Till proud glows the eaxth, gralthed in harness from 
heaven ; 

The fields flourish fragrant with siunmer flower 
blossoms ; 

Time robs not the earth of its brightness and 
braveries, 

But he strips the lorn heart of the loves that it 
lived by. 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for- 
ever. 

We have sought for the smiles that shed sunshine 
around us, 

For the voices that mingled mind-music with ours ; 

For hearts whose roots grew where the roots of 
our own grew, 

^Vhile pulse sang to pulse the same lay of love- 
longing. 

In the fair forest firth, on the wide waste of waters. 

By brooks that gleam brightest, and banks that 
blush bravest. 

On hill and in hollow, green holm, and broad mead- 
ow, 

on 



306 - THE RITTERS RIDE HOME, 

We have sought for these loved things, but never 

. could find them, 
We have shouted their names, and sad echoes made 
• answer. 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for- 
ever. 



THE RITTERS RIDE HOME. 

As eagles return to their eyrie, 
Gorged with the flesh of the young kid, 
Even so we return from the battle — 
The banquet of noble blood. ^ 

We are drunk with that ruddy wine ; 
We are stained with its droppings all over; 
We have drunk till our full veins are bursting. 
Till the vessel was drained to its dregs — 
Till the tall flagons fell from our hands, 
That were wearied with ever uplifting them : 
We have drank till we no longer could find 
The liquor divine of heroes. 

The Ritters ride home I 

Ask where great glory is won ? 
Inquire of the desolate land ; 
Of the city that hath no life, 
Of the bay that hath no white sail. 
The land that is trenched with mad feet, 
Which turned up the soil in despair ; 
The city is silent and fireless, 
And each threshold is crowded with dry bones ; 
The bay glitters sheenly in sunlight. 
No oar sliivers now its clear mirror ; 
The mast of the bark is not there, 
Nor the shout of the mariner bold. 



THE RITTERS RIDE HOME. 307 

But the sea-maidens know of strange men, 
Beclasped in strong plaits of iron : 
They know of the pale-faced and silent, 
Who sleep underneath the waves, ^ 

And never shall waken again 
To stride o'er the beautiful dales. 
The gr 'en and the flower-studded land, 
'he Ritters ride home ! 

■^ve come from the strife of shields; 
bristling of mighty spears ; 
• smith-shop, where brynies were anvils, 

hammers were long swords and axes, 
e come from the mounds of the dead, 
hero forms lay like hewn forests ; 
rivers run red in the sun, 
V-a ravens of heaven were made glad ! 
The Kitters ride home ! 

The small ones of earth pass away, 
As chaff they have drifted and gone. 
When the angry winds rush from the North, 
And sound their great trumpets of wrath. 
The tempest-steeds rush forth to battle, 
They plough up the earth in their course, 
They hollow a grave for the dead. 
As the share scoops a bed for the seed. 
The Ritters ride home ! 

Beautiful ! beautiful ! beautiful ! 
Is the home-coming of the War-faring ; 
Of them who have swam on the ocean ; 
Of fountains that spring from great hearts. 
The sunshine of glory's around them ; 
Their names are the burthen of songs ; 
Their armor and banners become 
The richest adornments of halls. 
The Ritters ride home ! 



308 



THE RITTERS RIDE HOME. 



Beautiful ! beautiful ! beautiful ! 
Sounds the home-coming of the War-faring ; 
And their triumph-song echoes forever 
'Mid^he vastness of gloomy Valhalla. 
The Ritters' last home ! 



THE END. 



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